Only Happy When It Rains
by Enlee
Summary: Wilson comes up with an unusual way to help House. HouseWilson slash. Last chapter is now up. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

If there had been any other option I would have taken it, but at the time I didn't see what else I could do. It was a last resort and that's the only reason I took the chance. So I mixed the sleeping pill with Greg's scotch and brought it to him without a word. I waited for him to ask why it tasted funny but he didn't say anything, just watched _CSI _in a moody silence. I was sitting next to him and he couldn't be bothered to put his arm around me, only our hips were touching. He set the empty glass on the table. I asked if he wanted another and he waved me off. I turned my attention back to the television. Snoring came his end of the sofa by the time the show's credits began to roll

He was at the low end of his depression cycle again, and that meant he was next to impossible to live with. He wasn't eating very much, he was sleeping even less, and the possibility that the idea of swallowing every Vicodin within reach might start sounding good to him again was at the forefront of my mind. I couldn't stand by and do nothing anymore. He was getting pretty low and the risk of him becoming any lower was too great. His thoughts might become actions this time around and I'll be damned if that was going to happen on my watch. But talking to him in that state was like talking to a wall, except the wall listened better. Maybe a decent night's sleep, chemically induced or not, would help him come out of it.

It was still pretty early and I knew he had slept only about three hours the night before. I left him where he was, only moving his feet from the table to the floor so his leg wouldn't cramp and wake him up. Then I took his glass into the kitchen and washed it twice.

The next three hours were uneventful, with only the television and Greg's low snoring invading the quiet space of the apartment. I was able to eat a sandwich without him stealing half of it off my plate. The only food he had been eating lately was potato chips from the vending machine and half of whatever I happened to be chowing down at the moment. Both of us had lost some weight. Around midnight I was ready to hit the hay myself. I cleaned up the rest of the dishes, then walked over to my sleeping friend.

"Greg?" I shook his shoulder. "Greg, it's time to go to bed."

He responded by grunting and pushing my hand away.

"Come on, you need to go to bed."

"Not now," he mumbled thickly.

"Greg–"

"The firetruck is over theeerrreeee..."

"_Greg!_"

My voice cut through the drug-induced haze; his eyes flew open and he gasped in shock. It wasn't my intention to scare him half to death, but I did.

"Sorry," I said, running my thumb down his rough, stubbly cheek. "You're tired. You need to lay down."

"Huh?" He blinked and looked at the television that was now turned off. "Was I asleep?"

"Yes."

"What the hell...what happened on my show?"

"They solved the mystery, as usual." I tugged on his arm. "Let's go to bed."

"What _was_ the mystery?" he asked, pulling himself up with a groan. He snatched his Vicodin off the lamp table and popped open the lid, tipping a pill into his mouth with hardly a second thought.

"The daughter didn't want to wait for her inheritance so she offed her parents," I explained, helping him walk to the bedroom on his wobbly feet.

"Fucking kids these days," he muttered. "Good God, I'm tired. Did you slip me a mickey?"

"Not hardly." I don't like lying to him and try to do it as little as possible. But it was either tell a lie now and hope he got some rest or tell him the truth and watch him kick my ass into the next time zone. "This is what happens when you get twelve hours of sleep over seven days."

"It's never been a problem before."

"You're forty-eight years old now, Greg. Things change."

I switched on the light, then pulled back the covers as he collapsed on the bed. I lifted his legs up and began to unlace his sneakers, just like I had done on other countless nights when he was exhausted or hurting or both. A faint chuckle floated over as I tossed the first sneaker on the floor. I looked up to see Greg staring at me and smiling.

"What's so funny?" I asked, untying the second shoelace.

"Nothin'."

I could never get used to his moodswings. Sometimes they could be rather extreme. At least this time it was from bad to good. When it's the other way around it always means bad news.

"Nothing, huh? Then why are you laughing?"

"You're so fucking cute."

"I know," I replied, and giggled right along with him. It was like we were twelve years old again, sharing a delicious piece of gossip only pre-teen boys could find juicy and scandalous.

The sneakers were off. I edged closer to him. "Sit up."

"What for?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Sit up so I can take your shirt off."

"Make me." His voice was low, almost a growl.

"Greg," I said with a sigh. "The sooner we get you undressed, the sooner you can go to sleep."

"Why don't you tell me the truth, Jimmy?"

"Truth about what?" I asked as the bottom of my stomach fell open. He knew. Of course he knew and now I was going to pay for it for the rest of my life...

"Tell me why you really want me to take my shirt off," he replied salaciously, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Fine...fine." I tried not to sound too relieved. "You're so damned sexy that I want you to take your clothes off so I can run my hands up and down every inch of your irresistible body. How does that sound?"

"Sounds perfect. Was that so hard, Jimmy?" He grinned and sat up, letting me pull the shirt over his head. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

"You would have thrown in a comment or two about how well-endowed you are," I said, helping him out of his jeans.

"You should know."

I rolled my eyes and he chuckled again. He relaxed back on the pillows and watched as I tossed the clothes into the laundry basket, then pulled the covers him. He closed his eyes, gave a contented sigh, and settled in for the night. I sat with him as he fell asleep.

I had gotten away with it. He didn't have a clue. If he didn't notice the sleeping pill in his drink, he probably wouldn't notice something else in it, either.


	2. Chapter 2

On the way to the bathroom I spotted his bottle of Vicodin on the lamp table. I got it and brought it the night table. Since his leg wakes him up more often than the alarm clock, it was better to have his pills within easy reach. 

He was back on the Vicodin less than a week after leaving rehab. I was disappointed but not surprised. I didn't say anything when I saw the prescription bottles reappear on the table. Obviously it's going to take more than the threat of jail to get him to quit. What that threat will be, I don't have any idea and I don't think he does either. At least now he's only taking too much instead of a ridiculous amount.

He had only one sleeping pill and it should be pretty much out of his system by morning. I chose to use only one since anymore would have been too much for his tired body and I might not have been able to wake him up and would have had to leave him on the sofa for the night. A decent amount of sleep is exactly what he needed. In the morning I'll make him all the pancakes he can handle and make sure he eats more than a few bites for lunch and dinner. If there's time I might even stop and get us a double cappuccino before getting to the hospital. Before heading into the bedroom I stop by the kitchen and fixed a few extra sandwiches to hide in my office fridge. Greg isn't the only one who needs to eat.

I finally make it to bed, slip under the covers and look over at the pale ghostly figure sleeping next to me. I wish he would quit the Vicodin. I wish he would go back to rehab. I wish he would stop equating psychiatrists with used car salesmen and get the help he needs. Wishing wasn't going to make happen. I can't do anything about his addiction except hope he doesn't overdose again. Addiction wasn't cured by another prescription. He's going to have to handle that himself. In the meantime I'm not going to stand by and watch his depression swallow him up into its endless abyss. Desperate times call for desperate measures and it's a chance I'm willing to take. If he can't or won't help himself, I'm going help him. In this case it's not going to be a matter of whether he likes it or not because he's not going to know about it.

The sleeping pill did the trick; he's been sleeping deeply since his eyes closed. Usually there's a good half-hour of tossing and turning and mumbling before he can settle down. I inched closer and pulled him into an embrace, his head resting in the crook of my neck. _It's for your own good, Greg_, I thought as his beard scratched my skin.

* * *

His leg woke him up a good hour before the alarm was set to go off. I heard him sit up and then the familiar rattle of the pill bottle cut through the morning silence. He got up and stalked off to the living room without checking to see if I was awake. I listened to the dull tap of his cane and his footsteps and he walked the sofa to get his blood and the Vicodin circulating. A period of silence, then the scent of coffee drifted into the room. I got up. To the shock of no one he was sitting at the table, watching the doorway for me. 

"Morning," I said, and poured myself a cup. He didn't answer, just nodded in my general direction.

"Sleep well?" I had to ask. I knew damn good and well he had, I just wanted to hear him say it.

"Yeah," he answered absently. He still looked tired; one decent nights sleep wasn't going to counteract several weeks worth of insomnia. But at least it was a start.

"Hungry?"

"I thought you would never ask," he said with his first genuine smile in days.

"I don't have to. It's coming right up." I enjoyed cooking for him because he enjoyed what I made. When he stole what I made for myself I had to take it as some kind of backhanded compliment, even if I did go hungry.

He stared at me the entire time. I could feel his eyes burning a hole in my back. I glanced over my shoulder and he didn't even try to look away. He just sat there with a crooked half-smile, like he knew about a big practical joke that was about to played on me. There was no bucket of water over my head. Who knew what he was really smiling about. I turned back around to pour the batter into the pan. He was still smiling. I didn't have look again.

Half his pancakes were plowed through by the time I got to the table. I told to slow down before he made himself sick, but I don't think I have to say if he listened to me or not.

"You were all over me this morning," he said after finally pausing to take a breath.

I looked up, puzzled. "Do I even want to know what you really mean?"

"It means that I woke up in a tangle of your limbs and you were drooling all over my shirt."

"So you decide to complain about it _after_ I make you breakfast," I pointed out. "Somehow I don't think that's a coincidence."

"It isn't."

"And your point is...?"

"There isn't one. Your nocturnal drooling aside, it was kind of nice. You just can't help yourself even when I am being a colossal prick, can you?"

"As I said last night, you're just too sexy and irresistible."

His eyes narrowed. "Did you really say that?"

"Yes, when I was trying to get you to sit up so I could take your shirt off. Don't you remember?"

"No," he said, then rested his chin in his hand and grinned. "But I rest my case, Your Honor."

We ended up running a little behind and didn't have time to stop for coffee. Oh well. Maybe I could buy him one later. But first I had to see about getting some antidepressants.


	3. Chapter 3

I brought him a double-mocha coffee. He didn't bother thanking me for it, just grabbed it out of my hand and gulped it down. I let it slide. His moods had been less-than-stellar and it's not like he asked for depression to hang around and make every day a gloomy ordeal to suffer through. Then again, Greg being Greg, he probably wouldn't have thanked me for it even if it had been the most wonderful day of his life, a day that was pouring down rain and everyone except him forgot their umbrellas. Then I wouldn't have spiked his coffee with antidepressants either. I watched him drain the cup and toss it into the trash can, biting my lip to keep from grinning. 

For the rest of the day I made lame excuses to drop by his office. I brought him a bag of chips. And no, he didn't thank me for those either. I asked if he was going home early. He just grunted at me, indicating that he would rather be anywhere than the zoo that was running around him. What I was really doing was making sure the antidepressants weren't interacting with the Vicodin. He seemed to be all right, for what that was worth; barking orders at his underlings and nearly throwing his laptop across the room after a page took too long to load. Unfortunately, antidepressants don't have an instantaneous effect so I was probably going to have to hover around for a couple of weeks for his computer's sake. The laptop doesn't deserve the same bloody fate as the alarm clock.

The extra sandwiches were a good idea, since I didn't get out of the hospital until after eight o'clock. One of my patients, a clingy young lady who couldn't shut up even if it meant the firing squad and insisted that I listen to her life story from beginning to end. After a lifetime and a half I was finally able to free myself from her claws. Back at the apartment Greg is playing the piano, the remains of Chinese takeout littering the table. A bottle of Pepsi and his Vicodin kept him company. He glanced up at me, then back down to the keys. I sat down beside him on the bench. He kept playing. I slid my arm around his waist. He tried not to smile and failed. It was a small smile, but I caught it just the same.

"You going to be okay?" I asked.

"Maybe," he answered, and that was all the answer I was going to get.

I went ahead and asked anyway: "Would you mind elaborating?"

"I would very much mind. I answered your question. Take it or leave it. I don't care either way."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Do I ever?"

"No. Why did you go back on the Vicodin?"

He kept playing as if I hadn't said anything. The music was brilliant, as usual. But I almost wish he would have pitched a fit, thrown his drink across the room, scream at me for asking such a stupid question. But he didn't. He was cool as a cucumber, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the black and white keys. He had been waiting for that question. He had been waiting since he left the Vicodin out where I could see it.

"Because I wanted to," Greg replied blithely and tossed another glance in my direction. "And I'm not going to elaborate on that either. My turn to ask you a question: Why didn't you leave when you saw the pill bottles again?"

"Because I didn't want to."

"Damn right you didn't. Why didn't you lecture me about it?"

"Because you wouldn't listen. You've never listened before and there's no reason for you to start now." I rested my chin on his shoulder. "But I can if you really want me to."

"No thanks."

"You sure? I can lecture you until your ears fall off."

"That won't be necessary." The music suddenly paused as he reached to take my hand that was currently wrapped around his waist. "Do us both a favor and skip the lecture. Please."

"I will."

"Is that why you kept coming to my office today? Were you going to lecture me in front of everyone? Try to _shame_ me into going back to rehab?"

I felt a twinge of guilt and said, "I just thought you might like some chips."

"Chips. _Hmph_." He was quiet for a few moments has he finished up the song. "You must be the most patient man in the world."

"I have the patience of a saint, remember?" I reminded him.

"That you do, Saint Jimmy. Maybe someday I'll learn to fully appreciate it."

He leaned over and gave me a soft, lingering kiss and started playing again. I sat with him and listened until he had had enough and went back to the sofa to catch a program about idiots hiring hitmen to kill their spouses. I went with him and chuckled when he put his arm around my shoulder. He kept staring at the TV screen and pretended not to notice.

Something told me he was going to bed early and I was going with him. It beat slipping another pill in his drink.


	4. Chapter 4

There are times when Greg House can be a truly kind and gentle soul. One only has to look at when I had shingles and when my arm was broken. He brought me meals, he made sure I took my medication, he made sure I was comfortable and got enough rest. He gave me a shoulder to cry on when my brother died. He was there for me and I can't thank him enough.

But this isn't one of those times.

Right now he's all hands and no finesse, rough, desperate, primal, pushing and shoving and grabbing at my clothes. I pushed and shoved right back because that's exactly what he wanted. His depression sometimes made him aggressive and said aggression needed a release. I suppose I make the most convenient target. As long as he kept it confined to bedroom games between these four walls I really don't have a problem with it. Better me than some unsuspecting patient hearing that he wanted to 'fuck the taste right out my mouth.'"

"Hold still, goddamit," he growled, trying to get me pinned down on the bed.

"Fuck you," I growled right back and pushed him off balance. He had to grab the headboard to keep from falling off the bed. I relish the surprise on his face as I got out from underneath him. Two buttons have been torn off my shirt, trails of thread where they used to be. I pulled it off and tossed it on the floor before Greg and his complete disregard for other peoples property totally ruined it.

He grinned wickedly and said, "That's the plan," then reached out and caught my by the back of the neck. Then his mouth crushed against mine, the roughness and desperation in it bleeding right into me. A brief gasp for air and I heard a low and gravelly "_You fucking queer_," before he all but devoured me again and my mind went to a hazy far-off place.

Then I found myself flat on my back and I was jolted back to reality. He was trying to keep my pinned there while at the same time trying to pull my belt off. I wasn't having any of it, at least not yet. I pushed his hands away. I clawed and pulled at the wrinkled pink shirt he was still inexplicably wearing and tore a button off. I scratched at his chest and heard a faint grunt. Our eyes locked before I had a chance to enjoy my small victory. His eyes were a blazing fire, almost menacing, and I was trapped beneath it, suddenly unable to move. The heat from his gaze and his body covered me like a heavy blanket. The entire room was stifling, or it just seemed that way. My lungs felt ready to burst and I gasped for breath. Beads of sweat trickled my chest.

He looked me up and down, then licked his lips. It was all slow and deliberate. The heat in the room was getting unbearable. Every breath took a tremendous effort. Then he grabbed my wrists. I tried to pull away but he hung on, gripping hard enough to hurt.

"Enough," he declared in a low voice, the fire still roaring behind his eyes.

I didn't listen and still tried to twist my arms free.

"I said 'enough'."

There was some fight still left in me, and I still wasn't listening.

"Jimmy!" His voice cut through the stifling atmosphere of the room like a knife through warm butter. "Enough, all right? Enough."

I looked up, confused. "Enough _what_, Greg?"

"Stop struggling and hold still."

"What for?"

"Because I told you to." The wrinkled pink shirt hung open, his skin flushed from his chest to his hairline. It was only then I noticed that he was practically panting, and another wicked grin tugged at that delicious mouth of his. "Just give in already. I'm not about to hold your submissiveness against you, especially under these circumstances. But I will get out the ties again if I have to."

"You don't." My wrists were ringed with red just from him. I didn't need any chafe marks as a souvenir from this admittedly tense encounter.

My response pleased him. "Very good," he remarked, then he swung his good leg over my hips and straddled me. "So fucking submissive. I love it." There are times in the bedroom, like in the world outside this apartment, Greg won't shut up to save his life. But I wasn't in any position to do anything about it. I had to listen until he was ready to get on with it or until I went crazy with lust, ripped his shirt off and stuffed it into his mouth.

He sat back on his heels and looked down at me, enjoying what he was seeing. "You fought back pretty good, you submissive little queer." He was calling me a queer again. Not out of malice, he just wanted to get a reaction.

He wasn't getting one. I just said, "Thanks."

"You're welcome." My lack of reaction didn't faze him in the least. He let his fingernails trail down my chest.

My breathing picked up and he noticed immediately.

"You like this, Jimmy?"

"Yes."

A soft chuckle, then he paused to finally take of the pink shirt and toss it aside. Then the fingernails were back. It was so simple yet one of the most erotic things I've ever experienced. Good God, I wish he would shut up already. "It's driving you crazy, isn't it?" he asked, and chuckled again.

"Yes," I gasped.

"You like this, but you want something else. Isn't that right?"

"Yes. Greg, _please_..."

The fingernails made another trip up and down my chest. He did it just to let me know he was in control.

"Is there something you want, Jimmy?"

"I want you."

"All you had to do was say so, Jimmy," he said as he pulled off my belt.


	5. Chapter 5

He finally managed to get my belt off along with everything else. After that it all became a tornado of his rough and greedy hands all over me, the delicious sensation of skin against skin, the salty taste of his sweat, our mouths crushing against each other. I kept hearing voices screaming out jumbled words with the occasional "_Oh, my God_!" making it to my ears, but I couldn't tell if it was his voice or mine. I do remember him growling at me after I dragged my nails down his back as hard as I could. No blood, but the scratch marks remained there for days afterwards. I gloated inwardly every time I saw them.

Nothing that good ever lasts for long; I was pushed over the edge and he tumbled after, panting, exhausted, resigned. The roaring in my ears died down until I could hear the sound of our breathing.

The aggression sated for the time being, all he could do was lay there, glistening in the faint light. I took full advantage of the situation and ran my fingertips over his damp and cooling skin, exploring the lines and planes of his face, his shoulders, his chest. He was through talking, or maybe for once in his life he just couldn't think of anything to say. He only acknowledge what I was doing with a curious, questioning glance, then left me to my own devices. I kept exploring for a while, and he would never admit that he enjoyed it.

Time ceased to enter the room. It was just us under the cool sheets.

Eventually I started to drift off. I thought he had as well until I heard his voice.

"Hmm?" I opened my eyes. "Did you say something?"

"I said that I had a dream about you last night." He sounded a bit annoyed that I hadn't heard him the first time. He wanted me to hear whatever he had to say, and he was going to make sure I heard it whether I wanted to or not.

"Really?" I said loud and clear, letting him know that I was listening.

Greg wasn't the type to blather on about his dreams, hopes and wishes. His eyes were closed. He was facing away from me. Something was weighing heavily on his mind.

He didn't bother to elaborate just yet, waiting for me to prod him on. I did.

"What was is it about?" I asked, trying not to sound apprehensive.

"You visited me in prison," he replied.

I swallowed hard. My stomach suddenly felt hollow. He hadn't said a word about his brush with prison time since going back on the Vicodin.

"For some reason you were right up at the bars, looking into my cell. You said it was going to be your last visit," Greg continued. "You didn't want see me anymore. Then you turned around and left without saying goodbye. I reached through the bars to try and stop you but you were already too far away. I was screaming at you to come back, but you just...walked out."

That's why he was up so early this morning. It wasn't his leg; the dream had upset him and he had been calming himself down before I got up. He didn't want me to see him like that. That's why he had been so aggressive in bed. It had been simmering all day, waiting just under the surface. His effort to keep at bay failed. He had to get it all out of his system before it drove him crazy.

Rather than say something stupid I chose to remain silent. He still looked away from me.

"Aren't you going to tell me that everything is going to be just fine?" he asked after several minutes.

"Do you want me to?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

"It's not going to change anything."

"I never said it was. Now say it."

"You're not in prison and I'm not going anywhere. Is that better?"

"A little." He turned over to face me. "Did any of your wives have...problems?"

I raised an eyebrow even though he couldn't see it in the dark. "What kind of problems?"

"Substance abuse problems. Drug addictions. Things like that."

"No, not really," I replied. "Bonnie sometimes drank too much and made an ass out of herself, but it wasn't a huge problem. She quit drinking all together after the divorce."

"How do you know that?"

"I ran into her at a restaurant while I was dating Julie. She was drinking mineral water with her meal and was quite proud of herself. She wasn't an alcoholic or anything, but that's Bonnie for you."

"That's nice," he said in a tone that let me know he could care less. "I'm not going to quit, you know."

"I know," I said, resigned to that fact.

"Does that bother you?"

"Yes, it does. It bothers me a lot, Greg."

"It doesn't bother me." He turned back over. "But the thought of you walking away and leaving me in my own personal prison does. We've almost lost each other several times, Jimmy. Our luck has to run out sometime."

I put my hand on his shoulder. He shrugged away from my touch. It wasn't until he was asleep that I was able to inch my way over and hold him close, feeling my heart beat against his back.


	6. Chapter 6

The alarm screeched and I reached over to turn it off. Greg pushed my hand away and turned it off himself. God knows how long he had been awake, just laying there waiting for the alarm to go off. I hoped he didn't have another prison dream.

"Good morning," I said, rubbing my eyes and trying to sound nonchalant.

"Morning," he mumbled, throwing back the covers. It was then that I noticed he was wearing a tee shirt and sweats. The temperature had dropped overnight. I was still naked and cold. I pulled the blankets back up.

"Pancakes," he ordered while limping to the bathroom. In true Greg House fashion he didn't wait for me to respond before the bathroom door slammed closed and the shower turned on. I was going to make pancakes anyway, but it's the principle of the thing. It wouldn't kill him to_ ask_ me if I could make him some pancakes every now and then. I'm not going to blab to everyone that he can actually be _polite_.

I threw some clothes on and made his damn breakfast. It was ready and waiting for him when he got out of the shower–a nice big stack of blueberry pancakes and a huge mug of coffee spiked with antidepressants. He did manage to grunt a half-assed thank you at me before wolfing down his food and drinking every last drop of coffee. I couldn't help but smile. He noticed and stole the last pancake off my plate. I was too busy silently gloating over my devious trick to care.

* * *

He was lounging on the sofa in my office like he didn't have a care in the world, and probably didn't. Nevermind the fact that I knew he had a patient who still didn't have a diagnosis. I had just come back to take a breather after telling a woman that her husband if thirty-five years was going to die. I wasn't in the mood for mindless chit-chat. But that never stopped Greg before. 

I narrowed my eyes at him before going over to my desk and flopping down in the chair. "What are you doing in here?"

"Hiding." He seemed to be rather proud of that fact.

"From clinic duty...again? Or is Cuddy down the hall counting to fifty?"

"Hiding from the world," he clarified, as if that's supposed to make perfect sense. I'm sure it did to him, but it never would to me. "What's with you, Jimmy? You look like someone just ran over your dog."

"My patient is dying and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it except pump him full of drugs to ease his pain," I replied tersely, hoping he would take the hint and leave me alone for a while. Nope. He didn't move from the sofa. "What about _your_ patient, Dr. House?"

"Chase is checking out his apartment. Cameron and Foreman are running an MRI. Not much I can do until they give me the results."

"Why don't you give them a hand?"

"They don't need my help."

"You could help Chase look over the apartment."

"No can do. My patient lives in a walk-up. Five flights of stairs if I remember correctly. Only those with two working legs need apply. You didn't bring me a mocha cappuccino today."

"I've been busy." Good grief, all he cares about is his fucking coffee. He can be such a selfish bastard. "And you can buy one yourself, you know."

"They taste so much better when you buy them."

"Greg...please." I sighed and let my head drop into my hands. "Don't. Not now."

"Do you want me to leave?" He sat up and looked at me.

"Yes, I would like you to leave."

"Why?"

"I'd like to be alone for a while, if you don't mind."

"What for?"

For crying out loud, he never quits. "Because I want to be, all right?"

"Funny, you didn't say that when I was fucking you into oblivion last night."

Oh boy. That did it. I slammed my fist onto the desk. The pens jumped. One rolled off and fell with a soft thump onto the carpet. Greg flinched back an inch or two. I was so angry I wished he would have fallen off, hurt his leg, and busted up that mouth of his. It would have served the bastard right.

"We need to get something straight," I said through clenched teeth. "Right here, right now, in this hospital, I'm a doctor. I'm not your boyfriend. I'm not your plaything. I'm not your sounding board. I am Dr. James Wilson, head of Oncology. When I'm here my patients come first. Ten minutes ago I told a very nice woman that the man she has loved since middle school has less than a week to live. She fell apart, was a sobbing wreck. She needs me to be there for her and I intend to be. So now if you'll _excuse me_, Dr. House, I'd like a few moments to myself. The kids are on their way to say goodbye to Dad and I'd like to be around to answer any questions they might have."

"Okay." That small word got caught in his throat. He had pushed me too far and it was way too late to turn back now...and he knew that as well as I did. Mercifully, Greg didn't try to argue about it. He just got up and left in silence, closing the door carefully behind him.

I stayed at the hospital longer than I had to and didn't get home until ten o'clock. Greg was watching one of those godawful wrestling shows. I stalked to the kitchen without looking at him, intending on pouring myself a tall glass of bourbon.

"Jimmy?"

I took my time pouring the drink and took a long swallow before walking over to the doorway and peering out, meeting his gaze.

"Both of us have been wrong before, about whether or not our patients are going to make it. It happens," he began. "But you weren't wrong about this one."

"No," I said curtly.

"Did the kids show up?"

"Three out of the four. The oldest lives in London and is on a plane as we speak."

"I should have kept my mouth shut," he said.

"Yes," I agreed. "Yes, you should have."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be."

Apology over, he turned back to the television. I went back into the kitchen and finished my drink.


	7. Chapter 7

I wanted to get blind, stinking drunk. So drunk I would pass out on the sofa and sleep in my clothes. Wake up in the morning with a pounding skull, red eyes, and the taste of slime-covered bourbon in my mouth. I really really wanted to, but I didn't. I'm nothing if not responsible when it comes to my patients and my job. One doesn't become an oncologist because everything will turn out hunky-dory. The one drink did calm my nerves a little. I put the bottle back and went out into the living room.

My nerves were still too wound up to even think about getting some sleep. I settled into the easy chair and intended to let the wrestling rot my brain.

Greg's voice broke through: "It's kind of hard to avoid me when we live together, you know."

"I'm not avoiding you," I replied without looking at him. If I turned and met his eyes, I would be captured in his steely gaze. My eyes stayed on the horrifically fake wrestling show.

"Wilson, you only sit over there when you're mad at me."

"You only call me Wilson when you're mad at me."

"Exactly. I'm not lying about that. But you're lying to me."

"I am not."

"You're still lying."

"I am _not_!"

"Liar," he said. He wasn't going to give up, not until he got what he wanted out me. "Prove me wrong, _Jimmy_."

I didn't want to. I wanted to stay right there until I was ready to go to bed.But, damn it all, he was right. We couldn't avoid each other when we lived together, especially when we slept in the same bed. Sure, I was still mad at him, but that didn't mean I had to go to bed still mad at him. Well...maybe I won't tonight. That was up to him. I got up, still avoiding his eyes, walked to the other end of the sofa and flopped down with a deliberately loud, heavy sigh.

"You're still avoiding me," he said, the disapproval in his voice was loud and clear.

"So?" I replied as if I could care less. Getting under his skin was a strange, alien thrill.

"I said I was sorry. What else do you want me to say?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"You're still lying to me."

"So?"

"Did you lie about your patient, too?"

I looked him square in the eye. "I don't lie about my patients, and I don't lie to them, either."

"But you'll lie to me. I see." He gave me a look that could have stripped the varnish off patio furniture, then turned back to his show.

With an even louder and heavier sigh I got up and settled next to him. His eyes remained on the television.

"I'm not lying to you," I said.

"You aren't _now_," he replied.

"The oldest son will at the hospital tomorrow," I began, changing the subject. "The whole family will be around until the end."

"So?" The reply was delivered with the same disinterested tone I had used on him a few minutes earlier.

"I'm going to make sure their father and husband is as comfortable as possible."

"So?"

"Will you stop acting like a petulant brat for three minutes and listen to me?"

That got his attention; he managed to turn away from his precious television program give me his patented icy gaze.

"You're going to be busy for a while," Greg broke in before I had a chance to say anything else. "I get it. Your patients come first. I wouldn't expect any less from you. Is there anything else you would like to say or is that all you were going to lecture me with?"

"I wasn't going to lecture you, I was just going to explain a few things."

"You don't have to explain anything. Is there anything else you want to say?"

"Don't hide from Cuddy in my office anymore."

"I'll think about it."

"Try not to avoid me when I get home tomorrow."

That earned me a chuckle. "The easy chair only seats one, you know."

"I try to remember that." I put my arm around his shoulder, pleasing him immensely. Whatever anger he had left towards me blew away in the breeze.

"The cappuccinos do taste better when you buy them."

"Everything tastes better when I pay for it, right?"

"I can't argue with that logic."

"Get up early with me tomorrow and I'll buy you one," I offered.

"I can wait a while," he said, then leaned into me. A good cup of coffee wasn't enough to get his ass out of bed and in the hospital before it has to be.

He doesn't like it when I "avoid" him, whether I really am or not. Because he likes having me around. He likes knowing that there is someone here for him. He needs me. That thought made my heart pleasantly ache.

The storm that threatened us headed out to sea. We wouldn't be going to bed mad tonight.


	8. Chapter 8

He was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. Getting ready to come to bed. I had turned in an hour earlier; tossing, turning and dozing on and off.

I wasn't asleep but pretended to be when he finally came limping into the bedroom. I listened as he peeled of his clothes, tossed them to the hamper and missed. My clothes are in there while his are scattered in a ten square foot area on that side of the room. I gave up picking up his clothes. It was easier to keep our laundry separated when all of his was on the floor. Heard the rattle of the Vicodin bottle as he took his last pill of the day. A soft thunk as he leaned the cane against the night stand. A grunt and the bed dipped as he lifted his leg onto the bed and slipped under the covers.

"Jimmy?" His voice was quiet. His aggression was at bay for the time being or else he'd had have me pinned down and be ripping off my clothes again. Not that I really mind that, but I do mind if I'm trying to go to sleep.

He inched closer. I knew he was propped up on his elbow and looking down at me. My back was to him and the room was dark so I don't know what the hell he was seeing. Then I felt his fingers tracing up and down my spine and realized he wasn't interested in seeing anything at all. The sensation of touch was what he was amusing himself with at the moment, feeling warmth under the whorls of his fingers. Those lovely fingers that are capable of doing so many dazzling things. As they left my spine and started tracing the curve of my shoulder, a new sensation began to bloom in me. It was possessiveness–this is what he felt with me. It was these quiet moments together that make every headache he gives me worthwhile. I get this kind and gentle side of him all to myself; nobody else can have it. It belongs to me and me alone.

I reached over and grabbed his hand. He didn't try to wrench out of my grip; it was like he had been expecting me to take his hand.

"You were never asleep," he said softly.

"No." I turned over and saw his silhouette against the blue glow filtering in from the streetlights outside the window.

"Good. Now I don't have to apologize for waking you."

I laughed softly and said, "You wouldn't have anyway, even if you did."

"Nope."

"I didn't think so." I tugged gently on his arm. "Lay down."

Much to my surprise he didn't offer a half-hearted protest or even try to argue with me. Instead he quietly did what he was told, taking over my pillow and forcing me to move over. He pretty much took over my half of the bed.

"What's the occasion?" I inquired as he made himself comfortable, our foreheads touching. His breath was warm on my neck and smelled minty.

"What occasion?"

"This right here. You're usually not this...lovable. Especially after we've been arguing."

"We argued earlier this afternoon. We made up later. Remember?"

"That still doesn't explain why you're being so warm and cuddly."

"Getting my fix from my other addiction," Greg answered blithely, like I should have known all along. "Learning to appreciate what I have. I just want to be close to you. Take your pick."

It was the second answer that had me intrigued. "You appreciate me, Greg?"

"Don't make me answer that."

Okay, I wouldn't. "You're addicted to me?" I grinned at the thought.

"You're almost as good as Vicodin." The sincerity in that answer rang through the dark room. That was a twisted Greg House compliment if I ever heard one.

"Almost?" I teased, honestly wanting to hear what his warped explanation would be.

"A very close second, Jimmy."

"How close?"

"A photo finish. It's a different kind of high and a different kind of addiction, but it's almost as good. The thing is the pills can't appreciate me back. They don't yearn to share my bed. They don't wait for me to come cuddle with them in the middle of the night."

"Is that what you think? That I was waiting for you?"

"That's what I'm going to think whether you were actually were or not. So there."

"Fine with me, Greg."

"I knew it would be." He draped an arm over my chest. "You're going to be busy taking care of your patient for a while."

He was right about that. The antidepressants were going to have to be put on hold for the next week or so, unless a coffee shop decided to open up next to my office. At least his mood wasn't in an apocalyptic downward spiral.

"I should have come to bed earlier," he continued.

"You didn't have to if you didn't want to," I said.

"I should have anyway," he said in a low voice. "I like having you here, you know."

He likes having me here with him. Because he needs me to be here for him. He needs me.

But one little fact was nagging at the back of my mind. He needed something else, too. I brushed my fingers along the line of his neck and said, "I know you do, though I wish I wasn't in second place."

"Yeah, Jimmy," he replied with regret. "I wish you weren't, either."


	9. Chapter 9

The next few days were an absolute zoo. I lost count of how many days had gone by after my third consecutive twenty-hour shift followed by a few restless hours of sleep on the couch in my office. My dying patient's family wanted all my time and attention. The wife latched on to me and all but glued herself to my side. Her questions were endless, and they were the same questions over and over and over again: _Shouldn't he have more medicine? Will he wake up? Can he hear me? What do you think, Dr. Wilson, is he in pain_? I answered all that could. Once her oldest son told her to leave me alone for a while. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing, hard enough to draw blood. Then every doctor in my department wanted my opinion or input on something. Everyone wanted a piece of me and all I got in return was a patient who was still dying, stale meals from the vending machine, and not enough hours in the day to get everything done. I was frustrated but didn't dare show it, not now. I went about my merry way and stretched myself too thin. As far as anyone was concerned me running around like a chicken with its head cut off was perfectly normal.

Thankfully Greg didn't bitch about me being too busy all that much during the few times I passed him in the corridor. Actually, he might have but I was too busy to notice or care. He left me a mocha cappuccino on my desk. It was cold by the time I noticed it after another grueling day. I drank it anyway, then passed out on my couch.

My patient died the next morning. The wife was a train wreck. That might be a bit of understatement. She was a walking disaster. I gave her a shoulder to cry one, literally. My white coat had a tear-stained spot on it by the time she pulled herself together into a semi-coherent state. She hugged me and thanked me for everything I had done for her husband and her family. The kids took turns shaking my hand and thanking me for taking care of their father. They had a bouquet of flowers sent to my office. They left to grieve in peace and make the funeral arrangements.

I sat in my office and realized that I was glad they left. I had done what I could and was too numb to care anymore. Let Mom suck the life out of the funeral director instead of me, like the mini-van driving, suburban yuppie, romance novel reading succubus she was. Her husband probably died just to get the hell away from her–

Dear God, what the hell was I thinking?

I got up and locked, then sat back at my desk and took some deep breaths. It was fatigue. It was all the late hours. I was just tired and frustrated. I needed some food and some sleep and everything would be fine in the morning. I'm a good doctor. I'm a good person. And here I thinking horrible thoughts about a woman who lost her childhood sweetheart. Lovely. Some compassionate doctor I was.

The flowers were on my desk, a tasteful mix of yellow roses and orange lilies. Their sweet smell drifted around the room. For me, because I'm such a good doctor and not a two-faced bastard. Of course. James Wilson, the good onocologist. The doctor who will move heaven and earth for a patient. I saw a card in the bouquet with the word 'Hypocrite' scrawled on it. I blinked and it was gone. The flowers were too nice to hurl across the room. They stayed put as I looked at my ugly desk blotter.

I finished my paperwork, told my department I wasn't coming in until noon tomorrow, and burned rubber tearing out of the parking lot.

* * *

"My Jimmy, still trying to save the world, one patient at a time." 

After a meal of cold pizza and a long, hot shower I had staggered to the sofa and collapsed into the arms of the most merciless prick on the planet. Everyone was equally worthless in his eyes. Except me. He was dishing out his useless blather and I listened to some of it. He would give me the comfort I was looking for when I needed it. His soft side would come out when I asked it to. It wasn't time yet. Right then I just wanted a few minutes to rest my feet and get my head together.

"The world will have to wait until tomorrow," I said with a yawn. Lack of sleep was catching up with me. I wasn't going to last much longer.

"And until I'm done with you," he playfully teased.

"Wait until tomorrow. I'm too tired right now. It won't be much fun."

"I'll think about it. Sleeping in your office instead of with me. So lonely in there all by yourself. What the hell was that?"

"It was that or fall asleep at the wheel and wrap my car around a tree."

"I guess so. But you're back in _our_ bed as of tonight. All is right with the world." He drove home his point by nipping at my earlobe, sending a few delicious shivers down my spine. But I was too fucking tired to really enjoy them.

"All isn't right yet. My patient's wife nearly drove me nuts. She would not shut up, asking question after question. It's like she thought the world would stop spinning if she stopped talking."

"So? Is that supposed to be big news or something? Stop the presses–people can be so gosh-darn annoying!"

"I was sitting in my office thinking that I was glad she was gone and that she was going to sink her claws into someone else."

"Did you say that to her face?"

"No, of course not."

"Then what are you so worried about? You can't like everyone, Jimmy. Trust me, I'm the expert on that subject."

"She lost her husband and less than an hour later I was sitting in my office thinking that he had died to get away from her mouth."

A gasping fit of laughter caught in his throat. I turned my head and looked up at him. A few more chokes and his laughing fit subsided, though a knowing grin remained plastered on his scruffy face.

"Does she know you were thinking that?" Greg asked with sincere curiosity.

"No."

"Does she know what you really think about her?"

"Of course not."

"Do you know what she really thinks about you?"

That stopped me cold. Greg picked up on it immediately.

"You did your job and kept your professional demeanor the whole time, am I right?" he asked. I nodded in agreement. "She left none the wiser and that's all you could ever ask for. She didn't say what she really thought about you. You're none the wiser, and you're better off being that way. So is she. So you had a few bad thoughts about a patient. That's too bad now, isn't it? But guess what–life goes on. This is my world and welcome to it, Jimmy. Ten years from now do you think you'll remember her, or care if she remembers you?"

"I want her to remember that I took good care of her husband in his last days," I said honestly.

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"Because your patients _always_ come first."

"Yes, they do."

"Even if they do drive you nuts."

"That woman...during the last few days she _would not stop talking_..."

"She's gone now, right? To 'sink her claws into someone else' as you so eloquently put it?"

"Yeah, she's gone," I said with relief. "The hospital will be quiet again."

"Now you have other patients to put first," he said, the cupped my chin and tilted my face up until my tired brown eyes were looking into his electric blue eyes, his expression still holding that thin knowing smile. "You don't have like them, but they don't have to know that you don't like them. Unlike me I'm sure you can pull that off."


	10. Chapter 10

He let me curl up with him when he finally came to bed. He let me because he knew it would make me feel better and I was going to anyway. So I became his blanket for the night. No complaints from his side of the bed as I took in a deep breath of his musky scent and fell back asleep.

Much to my surprise he didn't sleep in late with me and demand breakfast. He was gone when I finally got around to waking up. But he did leave behind a few presents in the kitchen sink–a bowl with Cheerios cemented to the side and a half-empty coffee cup. I washed out the cup and left the bowl to soak. Then I went about the task of getting some food and coffee in me and feeling ready to face the world again. My other patients needed me, right here and right now. I'm sure I would run into other patients and their families who would drive me to drink. It was a matter of when, not if. I would just have to deal with it when it happened. Either that or close my practice and move to a remote cabin in Alaska.

But first things first.

Someone else needed my undivided attention as well.

I stopped and bought two large mocha cappuccinos on the way to the hospital. No need to say what I did to one of them.

Greg blindly grabbed at the wrong cup before I barely stepped into the conference room. Thinking quickly I told him that I had already took a large gulp out of that one. "Eew, cooties!" he gasped in mock horror and took the other cup. Foreman rolled his eyes, Chase snorted, and Cameron paid no attention and had her nose buried in a patient file. Crisis averted, I walked back to my office with a little extra spring in my step.

And so the pattern continued. I knew he wouldn't be able to resist taking a coffee I bought for him. The whole 'it tastes so much better when I buy it' thing was just as true now as it was then. And I knew he would fall for it hook, line and sinker. Every morning I dutifully brought him the coffee. He took each and every one of them. Of course he bitched and moaned on the few days when I no time to think, let alone go out of my way and buy the damn cappuccinos. At least he waited until I got home to vent.

Thankfully there hadn't been a need to get the sleeping pills back out. Drugging his drink once a day is risky enough. Trying twice on the same day is patently insane. I may as well write my will and strap myself to the electric chair if I ever get delusional enough to try that.

I began to notice some subtle changes in him after about three weeks. He wasn't blowing up over every little thing. He was a bit calmer. A bit happier. He was definitely smiling more. The day he didn't bitch at me when I couldn't bring him a coffee was one of the best days of my life. All was good and well until he bitched about it the next morning over breakfast. Oh well, you can't win them all.

That evening I was feeling restless. I didn't want to spend the next five hours staring blindly at the television. I found Greg in his office and told him I was going out for a while.

"Out where?" he asked suspiciously. If I didn't know any better I'd swear he was jealous that I might be giving someone else my attention.

"Just out. Do a little shopping. Get out of the apartment for a few hours."

"You're out of the apartment now," he pointed out, resting his feet on the desk. "Why do you need to be out some more?"

"Because I need some new books to read and I want to get some new shirts and ties."

"More ties?" His eyes lit up. "_Kinky_."

"For me to wear," I said. "Not for you to have fun with."

He smiled wickedly. "We'll see about that."

"I guess I'll have to hide them in my office." I turned to leave. "I'll see you later."

I had made to the door when I heard: "Hold on."

"What is it?" I was halfway out of his office.

"Can you wait about fifteen minutes?" He put his feet back on the floor and began to put away the papers on his desk.

"What for?" I puzzled.

"I want to come with you."

After nearly falling over, I managed to pull myself together and gulped out, "You want to go..._shopping_?"

"Sure, why not?" He was very nonchalant. He also seemed to be very serious. "I need to get out of the apartment every now and then, too. Just give me a few minutes to get my stuff together."

I still wasn't convinced. Greg shops for nearly everything on the internet and has left the grocery shopping to me since I moved in. He doesn't go out to malls and stores unless he has to because he can't stand to be around the people, namely the loud, screaming soccer moms with their equally loud, screaming demon spawn who just love to make Greg's eardrums bleed and run into drive bad leg with all their brute force.

"I was planning on taking a while," I said, waiting for him to tell me he was joking.

"I'm a big boy. I can handle it."

"There's going to be kids there, you know."

"A good thwack on the back of their fat little legs with my cane will get them out of my way."

"Greg, you can't–"

"Jimmy," he said, looking up at me, "I'm not going to be walking around hitting little kids. It was just a joke."

"I certainly hope so."

"I am. I'll meet you in the garage."

"I'm driving?"

"I'll follow you. Need to have my motorcycle handy in case I need to make a quick getaway. Kids and canes don't mix, unfortunately."

"Look," I said carefully, "if you're just going to make a scene–"

"I can behave myself." He sounded insulted. "You don't have to babysit me. I want to go out and be with you for a while. Is that such a bad thing? Do you want me to stay home? Is that what you're trying to say?"

"No. No, not at all. I'll meet you in the garage in ten minutes." I closed the door and opened it back up just enough to stick my head in and grin at him. "If you do misbehave, I might have to punish you. But in the end it wouldn't work because you'd just end up liking it."


	11. Chapter 11

We walked through the throngs of people. I know Greg wanted to walk faster, but didn't seem to mind too much. He was chatting away about nothing in particular. For the moment he didn't appear to be too agitated by all the screaming kids and oblivious parents. Of course that could change in a heartbeat. Therefore I wasn't letting him out of my sight for any appreciable length of time until we got home.

The bookstore was closest so we stopped there first. Greg grabbed a motorcycle magazine and flipped through while I took my time and perused the shelves. I already had_ Salem's Lot_ and _The Gun Seller_ in my hands; I was reaching for _Smilla's Sense of Snow_ when Greg glanced up and narrowed his eyes at the title.

"What the hell is a Smilla?" he puzzled.

"It's the name of the main character," I explained.

"It's a stupid name," he groused, and followed me to the register.

The magazine was still in his hands. "You buying that?" I asked, setting the books on the counter.

"No, you are." He threw the magazine on top of the books.

The young lady at the register looked at the magazine, then back at me with a mix of patience and sympathy. She probably saw this sort of thing several times a day. Something told me that they all didn't end well and she was mentally preparing herself for the worst.

"Scan the magazine, please," I said with a small sigh, and swiped my credit card.

The books, magazine and receipt were stuffed into a bag. "Have a good night, sir," the cashier said brightly, handing the bag over the counter to me.

Greg chuckled and said, "It's always a great night when someone else pays for it." He then turned and winked at the girl behind the counter.

The cashier blushed and choked back a laugh. I grabbed Greg's arm and all but dragged him out of the store.

"Flirting with a girl young enough to be your daughter?" I queried with a playful slap on his shoulder. "Are you considering changing teams again?"

"I'm a middle-aged crippled jackass sleeping with another man," he answered. "But I'm not _dead_. And that girl was cute. And I think you're hardly one to talk, Mr. Multiple Marriages. Gonna track down Smilla and her fabulous sense of snow now? Will you have your wedding on an iceberg to prove your perfect love?"

"Not tonight," I said, and turned toward the food court.

I bought us each a coffee and pastry. Greg wanted an entire meal, but I didn't feel like watching him eat for the next hour. There were still a few more stores I wanted go to before the mall closed. I managed to talk him out of it by promising to make sandwiches when we got home. As many as he wanted. Surprisingly enough he gave in, told me get him a cinnamon roll, then stalked off to find us a table.

Munching on my piece of lemon cake, I watched him from the corner of my eye. He was wolfing down his snack and watching the people walk by. His features were cool and calm. He was filtering out the screaming and whining children as best he could. He wasn't smacking anyone across the knees with his cane. In other words, he was honestly out in public and enjoying himself. I was enjoying myself because he was enjoying himself. So far everything was working out quite nicely.

Twenty minutes later we were off again. He didn't seem to have any particular place he wanted to stop at and was perfectly content with following me where I wanted to go. So I went to a clothing store famous for their ridiculous prices and model-perfect employees. Greg didn't say a word. I went straight for the dress shirts and ties. He went over to the leather jackets and started browsing with sincere interest.

"Your credit cards work as well as mine," I called over to him after he held a solid black motorcycle jacket under his chin and checked himself out in a mirror.

"Christmas is coming up, you know," he said nonchalantly, now holding up a long brown suede jacket.

"Why don't we let Halloween get here first?"

"Christmas is still coming up."

"I'm Jewish, remember?"

"Yeah, well I'm _not_. Or is the leather not kosher?"

He put the jackets back and limped over to join me at the ties. He wasn't really interested in the jackets, he was interested in what I would say if he started bugging me to buy one for him.

"I expect something nice under the tree this year," he said. "Something that'll make me look badass on my motorcycle."

"And if there isn't?"

"Your ties go in the shredder."

"What will you tie me up with?"

"Your ugly shirts. Or maybe I'll just throw them in the shredder too, and put them out of their misery."

"Such a romantic," I said, holding up a forest green silk tie.

"That will look nice holding you to the bedpost," Greg smirked.

"I'm sure it will. Why don't you pick out a tie? I'll pay for it."

His smirk crumpled into disgust at my suggestion. "I don't wear those stupid things unless I have to."

"They look good on you."

"So does a leather jacket."

"I heard you already. Here, how about this one," I held an ocean blue tie up the light. It would match his eyes and bring out the darker tones, if he didn't knot it up around my wrists first.

"Sure."

I whipped my head around. "You're serious?"

"I'll wear it at his funeral."

He wasn't paying attention to me or the menswear. His eyes were locked on something else a few aisles over, his face hardened into a stony mask. I followed his gaze and felt the silky material slip out of my hands. Looking through the sweaters, standing less than one hundred feet from us, was Tritter.


	12. Chapter 12

I dropped the tie I was holding, then pulled Greg behind some shelves where we would be out of sight. Great. So fucking perfect. That son-of-a-bitch would have to show up here, tonight of all nights. Couldn't the bastard have waited until tomorrow to do his fucking shopping? Couldn't he have done his shopping yesterday? Why didn't I go shopping yesterday? Goddamn it all...

"You got a thermometer?" Greg sneered and took a quick peak around the corner.

I looked him square in the eye and with every ounce of seriousness I could dig up, I said, "Don't. Please don't start."

"Fine. No thermometer, no problem. How about a good smack on the back of his rotten skull with–"

"_Greg_!" I whispered harshly and grabbed his face with both hands. "Don't even think about it. Do you remember what happened the last time you fucked around with him?"

He swallowed hard and nodded.

"Everyone paid for that, Greg. _Everyone_. Especially us. Remember that?"

Another nod.

"Do you want me to leave again? Do you want to get arrested again? I can tell you right now that if he so much as catches you spitting on the sidewalk, you're going to get locked up and will never see the light of day again. Is that what you want, Greg? Tell me, is that what you want?"

A shake of his head. The icy glare in his eyes melted. Badly timed revenge wasn't worth the trouble and he wasn't going to let me spend another night in a cold, lonely hotel room. Common sense overrode his anger and he was going to do the right thing. That was the answer I was looking for.

I peered around the corner. Tritter was still sifting the pile of sweaters on sale. His leisurely pace and other shopping bag in his hand told me he was off duty. He wasn't in cop mode, right now he was just a guy looking for some new clothes at reasonable price. But he was still standing too damn close to us, off duty or not, and we were in his line of sight. If we stepped out from behind the shelves he would see. I really wasn't in the mood to chit-chat and shoot the breeze with him and I had a very distinct feeling that Greg wasn't either.

"Is he still there?" Greg was leaning on his cane, rubbing his right thigh. He was getting antsy and his leg pain wasn't helping matters.

"Yeah."

"How long does it take to pick out a fucking sweater?"

We got our answer, unfortunately. Tritter tossed the dark red sweater he was looking at back into the pile and began to walk right towards us.

"Shit!" I gasped. "He's coming this way!"

"Oh, fuck," my friend groaned. "Now what?"

I began to nudge him over to the other side. There was a grunt as Tritter cleared his throat. I could see his shadow on the ugly beige carpet as he got closer. Greg and I were nearly panicking, terrified at getting caught even though we were doing nothing wrong. Tritter had put us both through the wringer and would do it again given half a chance. All he would need was to see us standing here, no thermometer necessary. The memories of those awful weeks of his investigation were all too fresh. I hadn't blocked them out yet. I would have to work on that.

I could hear Tritter breathing and the crinkling of his shopping bag. I was afraid he would hear the crinkling of mine. Three more steps and he would see us. I backed Greg up and got ready to shove him behind another row of shelving, hurting leg and all.

"Hey, Mikey!"

The call came from across the store. Tritters shadow stopped and roiled around on the carpet, like he was turning away from us.

"Mikey! How ya doing?"

"George!" Tritter bellowed. His shadow retreated and disappeared. "George, where have you been, buddy? How are Mary and Johnny?" His voice got further away.

"They're great. Johnny's playing football now–"

Needless to say, we didn't stick around to listen to how Johnny was doing at football. We found our way through the maze of shelving and racks and got the hell out of there.

I all but ran through the mall, dragging Greg behind me. Dodging people left and right, I felt like I was in a giant pinball machine. I was looking for the entrance on the other side. That's where we came in. That's were I wanted to go. We needed to get home and far away from Tritter.

"Hold it! Slow down, Jimmy!"

Greg stopped and pulled me onto a bench. I was out of breath, sweating, wheezing.

"Sit down. He's not coming after us. Sit down."

I let out a sigh of relief and leaned forward on my elbows. The initial surge of panic and adrenalin had passed. Memories of fighting, begging, pleading with Greg about his pills, about rehab; throwing my clothes in a suitcase and stomping out front door; they all raced through my head. All the trouble. All the headaches. All the pain and misery brought down on everyone because two bullheaded alpha males wouldn't back down from each other.

"You okay there, Jimmy?"

His hand settled on my shoulder. I looked over at him, and the concern on his face was striking. A moment ago I had to talk him out of aggravated assault. Now he was trying to get me to come down from a near panic attack because I saw someone I didn't want to talk to.

"Yeah...yeah, I'm fine." I smiled weakly. "I'm ready to go home. How about you?"

"No new ties or shirts tonight?"

"Not tonight," I said, shaking my head. "Not with him here."

"Good," Greg said, pulling himself up with the cane. "You need to find a store that doesn't have such ugly menswear. The taste gene must have skipped your generation of the Wilson family. I want three sandwiches."

"Sure, no problem." I stood up and walked with him to the exit. "You want some chips, too?"

"Of course. We should save dessert for later."

"What's for dessert?" I asked.

He looked down at me and grinned. "You."


	13. Chapter 13

Half a chicken salad sandwich remained on his plate. Said plate was pushed away with the toe of his sneaker.

"Finished?" I asked.

"Yup," he answered, then grinned at me. "Need to save room for dessert."

Chuckling, I gathered up the dishes and took them to the sink to wash, since they would stay on the table for days if I didn't do something about it. Greg once told me, half seriously, that he was allergic to housework. I told him that I would believe it when I saw the hives and made him do his own laundry that week.

The whole 'escape that wasn't really an escape from Tritter' had left him in a grand mood. He ate his dinner with gusto, and had been talking, joking, and stealing chips from my plate all evening. Of course, I'd like to think that the evening would have ended well anyway even if we had run smack-dab into Tritter and his shopping bag. Greg had wanted to use his cane on that blow-hard cop in ways it wasn't intended. I couldn't help but wonder if he really had the guts to go through with it or if he was just blowing hot air. Most likely the latter. A revenge fantasy that was best left a fantasy, no matter how tempting it was. I didn't want to say goodbye to him in prison anymore than he did.

With the dishes finished, I went back to the living room and resumed my place by his side. A nice, quiet evening with him. I didn't even care that I didn't get to buy any shirts or ties. That could wait. I was enjoying the here and now.

He was getting used to the domestic coziness that comes with sharing your space with someone else. Who would have ever thought that Greg House enjoyed nothing more than a good meal and someone to make that good meal for him. Or buy him a cinnamon roll and a motorcycle magazine. Those were all simple and easy things that made him honestly happy even if there weren't antidepressants in his coffee every morning. Most of the time I didn't mind making him a sandwich or buying him a magazine because I liked what I got in return.

"You going back to get the stuff you wanted tomorrow?" Greg asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "Maybe, maybe not."

"Bring me back a treat if you do."

"I already bought you treats today."

"That was _today_. Tomorrow is a whole different day."

"Why don't come with me and buy your own damn stuff?"

"Why should I when you buy stuff for me?"

"Of course. I should have known," I said with plenty of fake irritation. "Like I said, I already bought you treats today. It's _my_ turn for a treat."

I leaned in and licked the soft skin behind his earlobe. He acted like he could care less, or tried to anyway. A smile tugged at the corner of his delectable mouth. His eyes glittered, the highlights shining away like tiny gems.

"You still want dessert, don't you?" I muttered into his ear, and licked again.

"Maybe later," he said without looking at me.

"You _lie_."

"Yes, I do lie sometimes. Everybody lies. But in case I'm not, give me a reason why I should change my mind and want dessert now."

"Okay. I will."

I was more than up to the challenge. I worked my way around his neck and jaw, little kisses and nibbles as his beard burned my chin. He was as still as a statue until I found that lovely hollow at the base of his throat. I latched on to that spot, relishing the sharp, salty taste of his skin. Oh yes, that definitely got his attention. I felt him shudder underneath me, and a roughly whispered "Oh...God" was exhaled in his voice. His wonderfully skilled hands grabbed the back of my head and tried to pull me closer. I decided to trade tasting his skin for tasting his kiss. Half a second later his mouth was captured in mine. He reciprocated, then stretched his long legs out on the sofa. Letting me be on top, in control for the moment.

I smirked as I sat up, straddling his waist, and began to unbutton his shirt. "Looks like I changed your mind pretty easily."

"I was lying. You didn't change anything." He smirked right back. "I got exactly what I wanted out of you."

"That's funny," I said. "I was about to say the same thing to you." The last button came undone. I pushed the fabric aside, exposing his flushed chest. My fingers traced their way down through the light dusting of hair and over the warm skin. So much of his skin exposed, but I wanted more and began to slide the shirt down his shoulders.

"That very well may be, Jimmy, but I got the cherry on top."

He was talking too much, again, so I gave him an incentive to be quiet with a squeeze to that very delicate area between his legs. Not only did that shut him up, it took his breath away for a few wonderfully silent seconds. Then we had each other for dessert. He moaned my name and that was fine with me. Then we had seconds. That was fine with me too.


	14. Chapter 14

His side of the bed was empty. Light shined under the door; low incoherent voices from the television made their way to my ears.

He had actually turned in with me when it technically wasn't the next morning. But after nearly an hour of tossing and turning and mumbling to himself, he threw back the covers while declaring that he couldn't get comfortable. I didn't stop him since he was keeping me awake, and watched silently as he pulled on his pajama bottoms and limped out the door; then I untwisted the covers and stretched out. I was a bit relieved and didn't want him to see it, as I didn't want him to take it the wrong way. Sometimes it pays to hold your tongue no matter how incongruous the remark might seem. It took me way too long to learn that.

Two hours after that I was awake again and still all alone in bed. The empty side loomed large like an endless desert with no oasis in sight. Why was he still out there? What the hell could be so interesting on television at this hour? I suddenly wanted him here with me. I wanted to run my fingers through his coarse hair. I wanted to feel his warm skin touching mine. I wanted to feel his breath on my neck and his rough, restless hands all over me and his heart beat with mine. I wanted to rest my head on his chest and feel him lightly stroke my neck as I fell back asleep. He wasn't coming back to me anytime soon and I wasn't in the mood to be all by myself. If I wanted him, I had to go to him. So I got out of bed, pulled on some sweats, and opened the door.

He watched me with curiosity and a touch of concern as I walked over the sofa. One of the zillion monster truck shows he had recorded was playing. His mouth opened to speak, but I didn't give a chance. I flopped down next to him and threw my arms around his neck. That certainly caught him off guard, then I heard him chuckle in spite of himself. He was too amused to be cross with me.

"If you're going to drag me back to bed," he began, rubbing his hand up and down my back, "just be sure to give me an extra Vicodin for the leg."

"Don't worry, I'm not dragging you anywhere you don't want to go," I said and nuzzled his neck.

"Thanks. What are you doing up?"

"I needed my fix."

Another chuckle. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Jimmy. Now what are you doing up?"

"I woke up and heard you out here, so I decided join you."

"I'm the moon and you're the tides."

"Um...yeah, if that's how you want it." Where he came up with those goofy analogies I'll never know.

"It is."

He turned back to his show and I settled back to watch it and watch him. Good old-fashioned insomnia was keeping him up, not depression. Depression had been put on the back burner. He was coming back to his old self. Dosing his coffee was helping. It really was helping and I wasn't going to feel guilty about it. If I have to drug him behind his back then so be it. It was a hell of lot better than standing off to the side and watching him fall apart.

Monster trucks were never my thing but I settled back and tried to watch it anyway. It was boring beyond words, as it was all the other times I tried to watch, and soon I was nodding off despite the roaring of the engines and crunching of innocent cars. There was a rough shaking of my shoulder and my eyes flew open.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Greg said. "You're snoring and I can't hear the TV. Go back to bed."

I sat up and rubbed my eyes until everything was blocked out with spots. "Come with me," I said.

"No can do."

Why not?" I demanded.

"Jimmy, either I go back to bed with you and keep you up all night, or I stay out here and leave you alone so you can some of the sleep you obviously need."

"You need to sleep sometime too, you know."

"I know, but that time isn't_ now_."

"When will that be?"

"It will be time when it's time."

"_When_?"

"Jimmy, I don't know. All right? I don't know. Now go get some sleep and stop all your damn worrying. I need you well rested tomorrow so you can make me a good nutritious breakfast."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." His insomnia was doing all the talking. Arguing with it was an exercise in futility. If he were to come back to bed with me he would be right up again as soon as I fell asleep. Well, maybe not. Maybe his insomnia needed a better reason other than 'I want you to'.

"Remember what happened on the sofa earlier?" I asked coyly, knowing damn good and well it was burned forever into his memory.

"My back is still recovering from it," he deadpanned. "Stop trying to be such a damn acrobat when you're on top."

"There's plenty more where that came from," I said, ignoring his sarcasm and standing up. "And there's much more room on the bed."

I padded to the bedroom. Ten minutes later he was sliding under the sheets to join me.


	15. Chapter 15

I wanted him to stay with me, not go back to the television and those stupid monster truck shows. It's no fun sharing a bed when the person you share it with insists on being somewhere else, insomnia or not. So I rested as much my body weight on his chest as possible and threw a leg over him just to be sure he got the point. He did. Message received.

"I get it," Greg muttered. "I'm staying here. Now get off me, big guy. I can't breathe."

I moved over and rested my head against his shoulder. He gave an exaggerated sigh of relief, as if my crushing weight threatened to smother him. I gave an exaggerated yank on his chest hair and smirked at the yelp it produced.

"You keeping me in here to torture me, Jimmy? Am I going to be flogged next? Are you going to get medieval on my ass?"

"I did that earlier, remember? Or is your memory degenerating in your old age."

"Oh, believe me. I remember every second of it. My memory is just fine, thank you very much. I'm going to be sore tomorrow and it's all _your_ fault."

"So sue me. You can bitch at me all you want tomorrow."

"You got that right."

"Going to tell everyone why you're walking funny?" I said with a snort. If he was starting to get irritated with me, that didn't stop him from letting me cuddle closer.

"I always walk funny. Or did you miss the cane up until now?"

"Okay, why you're walking _funnier_?"

"I can if you want me to. I'm sure I'll get quite an audience when I give all the precise details of how you can get your leg up behind–"

"FYI, Greg, I'm not the only one with precise details."

"Ooooo...touché"

"Now be quiet so I can go to sleep."

"Yes, dear."

I smiled at that, then closed my eyes. He shifted so he ended up turning towards me. I kept my smile. Then I felt him pull the covers up to my shoulder and I nearly had an aneurysm. But I kept still and silent. It was late and I needed to get some sleep. The teasing about him showing concern for another human being could wait until breakfast. I enjoyed the warmth and enjoyed him doing something so simple and nice for me. Nice is not a word most people associate with my friend. Too bad they don't know what they are missing when he's behind the walls of this apartment. That's their problem.

I woke up alone. Not that I was the least bit surprised.

He was waiting for me at the table the next morning with my new copy of _The Gun Seller_ in his hands. At least one hundred pages had been read between whenever he picked it up and the moment I walked into the kitchen. I heard the faint rasp of the pages turning as I got out the frying pan. He probably slipped out of bed as soon as I fell asleep and wound up reading my book and dozing off on the sofa, getting maybe three whole hours of sleep. Oh well, I can't win every time. But I did win when I teased him to death about pulling up the blankets for me. While gobbling down the French toast that I made, Greg mumbled something about me sleeping on the floor from now on, but not before I saw him blush.

Then I teased him about that too. And I won again.

He would get me back sooner or later. But I'll be damned if it wasn't all worth it.

* * *

I wound up going back to the mall that evening. Greg declined to go with me that time, citing the fact that he was less likely to run into Tritter back at the apartment. He asked me to bring him back a treat. I told him I would think about it. "You'll do more than think about it," he called after me as I left his office. 

I passed by the pile of sweaters Tritter had been pawing through the day before. He wasn't anywhere in sight. Thank God for small favors. The sweaters had been neatly restacked. I picked out a green one for myself and a blue one for Greg. He would wear it at least once if it was the last thing he ever did. Several hours, many stores and a few more treats later I packed up and head home.

He head was tilted back and he was looking at me as I came in the front door. I tossed over the Godiva chocolate bar that I already had out for him, then made my way around to the other side. The chocolate was all but devoured by the time I settled next him and began to go through the bags.

Greg less-than-subtlety began to peer into the bags. Probably looking for more candy. Gourmet chocolate soothed the savage beast. I had more but I intended to save them for later. I pushed the bag they were in away, hoping it was out of his line of sight.

I took out the blue sweater and put it on his lap. "Don't get any chocolate on that," I said.

He blinked at the pile of blue acrylic. "Is this for me?"

"Yes."

If he recognized it as one of the sweaters Tritter had been contemplating over the night before, he doesn't bother to mention it.

"A sweater? What happened to that tie you were drooling over for me?"

"It's right here." I tossed it onto the growing pile of presents on his lap.

He blinked again, looking more than a bit confused. "Chocolate, a sweater and a tie. All for me. What is all this? Did I forget my own birthday?"

"You wanted treats and I got you treats," I clarified, setting some of the things I bought for myself on the table. "You could use a new sweater or two. Some of your older ones are starting to unravel."

"Blue sweater and blue tie. I sense a trend here. To bring out the blue in my eyes, am I right? You win, Jimmy. You've made me feel all pretty inside."

"You're welcome." I pretended to ignore him and looked over my new shirts. "My work here is done."

"You got any more of those candy bars?"

"No."

"What's in that bag over there?"

"More shirts," I said absently, hoping he would drop it.

"You lie like a rug." His arm was around my neck, playfully yanking me towards him. "New shirts don't come wrapped in gold foil. Now hand them over or there's going to be hell to pay for you and your ugly new clothes."

"You're going to spoil your appetite," I argued, carefully extracting myself from his grip. "Don't you want any dinner?"

"My appetite is just fine," he said, smiling that wicked smile that meant nothing but trouble. "Too bad it's not dinner that I'm hungry for."


	16. Chapter 16

"You're beautiful," I said. It was time to tell him that since it was the truth. He certainly deserved to know the truth.

"No, I'm not," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. His tone of voice told me that he didn't believe a word I was saying. The blankets were pulled up to his chest but he still felt cold to the touch. The soft light from the lamp made the circles under his eyes look like bruises. Something had definitely soured his mood. I'll be damned if I knew what the hell it was. There were some deep, dark, dusty corners of his psyche that would never see the daylight, no matter how many treats and kind words I used to try and break down the door. Maybe someday I'll be able to kick the door in. Maybe I shouldn't. Some things are better left in the dark.

Still, a cranky and irritable Greg House was much more preferable than a depressed and miserable Greg House. The cranky Greg will at least listen to what I have to say. Miserable Greg would have screamed at me to shut the fuck up by now.

"I love you," I said, then braced for stinging insult from undisputed insult king. His razor-sharp tongue can cut you off at the knees and leave you looking at the bloody stumps before you realize what the hell just happened. Meanwhile he's limping away, relishing another victory on another unlucky sap.

I had developed a thick skin over the years. But an insult was still an insult and I still bleed like everyone else.

"I know," Greg replied quietly, his tone softening as he closed his eyes. He didn't say it in return, not that I really expected him to. It would have been nice. But one thing at a time. "I believe you."

"You didn't believe me a minute ago," I pointed out. "Why not?"

"I'm crippled. I'm addicted to Vicodin. I'm scarred. I'm damaged goods. I'm an arrogant jackass. None of those things are beautiful, Jimmy."

"I wasn't talking about those things. I was talking about _you_."

I edged closer. He didn't acknowledge my movements. He still felt cold. I pulled up the comforter and made a mental note to check and see if the window was open. For a second I thought he had dozed off, then he grumbled to himself as he turned over to face me. I lay back down on his pillow and we were practically nose to nose.

"All of those things are a part of me."

"They're parts of you, Greg. They are not who you are."

"That hideous scar on my leg doesn't bother you at all?"

"No."

"Of course not. Why should it bother you? You're not the one who has to live with it."

"Is your leg hurting again?" I asked tersely.

He didn't answer, and that told me everything I needed to know.

"How long?" I asked, sitting up.

"The last few hours." He made it sound like a crime. "It's building up like it did last time. Nothing is going to help and it's going drive me absolutely fucking insane–"

"You're going to be fine." I threw back the covers and got out of bed. Good grief, the whole room was freezing. The damn window had to be open. "I'll find the heating pad."

"–and it's not going to stop hurting this time–"

I ignored his pain-induced manic babbling and padded across the room to the closet. I pulled the door open and began to paw around the top shelf. "I put it in here, in case something like this happened again–"

"–you won't be able to stand being around me anymore and leave–"

"_What_?" I spun back around, dropping the heating pad on the floor. My eyes were so wide they started to dry out and ache. "What did you say?"

He pushed the blankets down and looked at his lap, suddenly interested in rubbing his bad thigh. "I said...nevermind. Forget it."

"What did you say, Greg?"

"Nothing. I didn't say anything."

"All right." Arguing was pointless as it wasn't going to make his leg feel any better. I walked over to his side of the bed and plugged the heating pad in. Even setting it on his thigh made him hiss through his teeth in pain. "You're going to have to relax a little, Greg," I said in my doctor-knows-best voice. "Lay back down and relax and keep the heat on your leg. That helps, remember? It helped last time."

The curtains fluttered. The window was open. No wonder the floor felt like an ice rink. I closed the window, switched off the lamp, climbed back into bed and pulled the covers back over us. He was still hissing through his teeth. His leg was killing him. Again.

"Take some deep breaths," I instructed, carefully inching closer to avoid any sudden jerking movements. Even from the other side of the bed I could sense that he was like a brittle piano wire ready to snap with the next false note. "Greg, please, just lay back and relax."

"Easy for you to say," he growled.

The last of his patience was slipping away. I had to act fast. So I did the only thing I could do in this situation: I got as close as possible, threaded my fingers through his hair, murmured a few words of encouragement. He tried to fight back and fight me but lost. I don't think he really minded this time. The tension gradually bled away. His tight, knotted muscles loosened up. His breathing became long and drawn out. The furrow across his brow disappeared. Slowly but surely he fell asleep. I yawned, stretched out and followed his example.

The limp was more pronounced the next morning. More pronounced, but not as bad as it was the last time. "I've been in worse pain. I told you to stop worrying so damn much," he told me as he carefully lowered himself into a chair. He waved away my concern and tore through his waffles with enough gusto to put my fears for his health, mental and physical, aside for the time being.

He was wearing the blue sweater I bought him. It looked very good on him. He was beautiful, if I was to be completely honest. He almost smiled when I told him so. Almost smiling was better than nothing. I could let it slide this time.


	17. Chapter 17

I'm holding the blue sweater. It's folded neatly and perfectly. Then Tritter tears it out of my grip.

"He won't need that. Besides, no gifts allowed," the blowhard cop sneers, rips it in half and tosses it into a trash can. Then he gestures down a long, dark hallway. "That way."

I turn and follow him. Everything is dark, gray, ugly and cold. No color to be had anywhere, except for the trashed sweater. It was stepping into a black and white movie. Tritter himself matched the equally ugly decor and my even uglier mood. Paint flaked from the otherwise bare walls. It was stifling, claustrophobic. How could anyone stand being in here, even for five minutes? I suddenly felt like I was trapped underground in a cave-in and would have to claw my out to the daylight.

The row of cells was in the very back. Of course, Greg was in the darkest and furthest one, away from anyone else. All alone. He was wearing the striped prison uniform and looked ridiculous.

"There he is," Tritter nodded at the cell with a frown, as if he disapproved of the visit and probably did. "You got something to say to him, say it now."

I walked up to the bars and noticed that his wrists and ankles were shackled. "What the hell is all that for?"

"He deserves it," Tritter said. "Damn addicts. Now hurry up and say what you have to say before we lock him up forever."

"Jimmy?" Greg met my eyes. He looked like a small child. "Jimmy, you'll get me out of here, right?"

"I'll do everything I can," I said, and it was the truth.

"Yeah right," the cop snorted at my friend. "Why should he waste his time with you, so you can go back to your pathetic pill-popping ways?"

"Get me out of here!" Greg pleaded. He stood up and shuffled to the bars. No cane to help him walk. "Please, Jimmy, get me out!"

Tritter laughed and said, "You can't help him, Dr. Wilson. He's never going to change. You get him out of here and he won't even give you so much as a thank you. He'll just want more Vicodin. You know he doesn't love you. He loves his damn pills."

"No! You can't believe that!" Greg screamed. The force of his voice nearly knocked me over.

"He's just a drug-addicted loser!" Tritter's voice was getting loud and angry. "That's all he is and that's all he ever will be. You know what he did to me. It's only a matter of time before he does something worse to someone else."

Greg banged his hands on the bars hard enough to draw blood. "Don't listen to him! Don't listen to a word he says. Now get me out of here!"

Tritter stepped in between us. "Get out while you still can."

"Jimmy, please..."

"Go, Dr. Wilson! Get out!"

"Shut up!" I screamed "Shut up, both of you! I don't want to hear it anymore!"

Those words were still caught in my throat as I shuddered awake, feeling like I had just been hit by a truck. My hands were clenched into fists and ached when I tried to straighten them out. My stomach started to do flips. I got up, staggered to the bathroom, and sat on the floor until I felt reasonably calm. The shaking stopped. Dinner decided it didn't need to go to the sewer just yet and stayed put. Maybe I should hold off on the liquor before going to bed.

A certain someone didn't come to see if I was okay. I was expecting that. I _wanted_ that. I wanted his hand on my shoulder and his reassuring words in my ear and his blue eyes looking concerned for me. But I was huddled on the cold bathroom floor all alone wearing nothing but my shorts, like a little kid hiding from the monster under the bed.

I pulled myself up, splashed some nice cool water on my face, and stumbled back to the bedroom. Slouching in the doorway with the light from the hallway shining into the room, I saw why he didn't check on me.

_Get out while you still can_.

_Get the fuck out of my head, Tritter._ _And stay out._

By some miracle he didn't wake up when I had jumped out of bed and made a mad dash out of the room. He was on his back, his head tilted toward my pillow, mouth slightly parted as he drew long, even breaths. The last few days and long nights had caught up with him, and he came to bed not very long after I had turned in for the night. He was sleeping peacefully, his face as calm as a lake on an early spring morning. Not popping pills. Not terrorizing a patient. Not sitting in jail with his wrists and ankles shackled.

His leg was still bothering him. Most of the evening had been spent stretched out on the sofa with the heating pad. But there was no meltdown this time. No screaming, fighting, or hurling anything within his reach across the room. Thanks to spiked coffee and a little bit of patience, he was coping rather well this time around. Listening to him grumble under his breath for a few hours was heaven compared to last time. Memories of hearing him yell at me because I happened to be there, threatening to kick me out, demanding his pills after he had already taken enough to knock out the Chinese army, cursing me and Stacy and the doctors who operated on his leg. Later he confessed that he had contemplated suicide...a memory that was still all too fresh. I pushed it and the rest of the memories away and concentrated on the here and now.

I walked over to his side of the bed. His shirt was twisted around. I reached over to fix it but at the last second decided not to. He was fine and I didn't want to disturb what little peace he got, those few hours I'm sure made all the difference in the world to him. Gently, I ran my thumb down his temple and smiled when he turned his head slightly into my touch. No worries, he was still sound asleep.

He was in his bed, safe from the rest the of world. He was with me. He was safe, he was with me, and that's where he would stay.


	18. Chapter 18

He woke up when I climbed back into bed even though I was trying my damndest to make as little noise as possible and not move the bed.

"Where do you think you're going?" he mumbled groggily.

"Nowhere," I answered, relaxing back onto the pillow.

"Then why are you getting up?"

"I'm not. I'm coming back, I had to use the bathroom."

"Likely story." Evidently it didn't really matter to him whether I was coming or going as he curled up and began snoring again.

The heating pad must have done the trick. It was good to see him getting some rest, his pain and addiction pushed aside for the night.

_You know he doesn't love you. He loves his damn pills._

_Fuck you, Tritter. He's told me that he loves me. I've heard him say it. You haven't. Now shut up._

Being in the same bed wasn't enough. So close, but so far away...like the bars of a prison cell between us. The space between us, however small or huge it may be, was maddening. I suddenly needed that contact, that innocent but intimate touch of his skin on mine. I needed to reassure myself he was here and he was very real. That this wasn't another dream. That he would be there in the morning, waiting for me to make his breakfast even if he could just as well make his own, as if that fact ever mattered since the day I moved in. Waiting to tell me in his own peculiar way that he loves me.

All this need and want. God, I'm worse than he is. It's a wonder that I can even function during the day.

Carefully I pulled him over that illusion of endless space and we were together, touching. His shirt pulled up and I could feel the warm, smooth skin of his back under my fingers. Oh yes, that was exactly what I was yearning for. He woke up again, of course, and mumbled a tired "_Whaaat_?" I was about to tell him that everything was fine and to go back to sleep when he decided that he was too comfortable to really care and beat me to it.

* * *

For once in his life he took his breakfast dishes to the sink. I followed, put my dishes with his and then encircled my arms around his waist. I couldn't help it. All that want and need still needed to be filled and only a certain someone could fill it to the brim.

"You're awfully touchy-feely today," he noted, rinsing off his plate.

"I don't hear you telling me to leave you alone," I said, then planted a rather sloppy kiss on his neck.

"I don't want you to leave me alone."

"Good, because I'm not going to," I said with a small laugh. "We're going to stay like this all damn day."

"Well now, I can't be an attention whore without the attention. And you're not up here just so you can slobber all over me. Why aren't you trying to get me out the door so we can be at the hospital on time?"

"I'm giving my whore some attention." That's the sort of thing he would say to me if the roles were reversed. He knew it and laughed. "What, is this not enough attention for you and your precious ego?"

"It never is."

"No, it isn't. What do you want, do you want me to stick my hand down your pants? Do you want me to get you off at eight in the morning?"

"Sounds like a plan to me."

"At the sink?"

"I'm game if you are."

"If that's what you want," I said softly into his ear while running my hands up and down his chest. "But you have to tell Cuddy why we were late."

"Oh, I will." He leaned back, seemingly pleased with himself and his diabolical scheme to embarrass me. "I'll be sure to include _all_ the gory details. Too bad I don't have a camera with me so I can show her all the pictures, too."

"Then I'll have to tell that it was all your idea," I countered. "That you hid my keys and wouldn't leave the apartment until I gave in to your demands. Given your history of lying, cheating and manipulating her on just about everything you can, who do you think Cuddy will believe and give the extra clinic hours to?"

"Hmmm...too little too late, Jimmy. The seed has been planted. You should have saved the dirty talk for bedtime." He took my hand and put it down his pants. And held it there. "Right now I don't give a fuck about clinic hours, and in a few seconds neither will you."

He was right, I didn't. At least he was in a wonderful mood for the rest of the day.


	19. Chapter 19

A shadow appeared over me while I was catching up with the newspaper and munching on some delicious and greasy french fries in the cafeteria. I waited for a hand to stretch over and steal half the fries, but no hand appeared. Instead Cuddy took the chair across from me. I set the paper down. She wasn't sitting at my table to ask if she could have the crossword puzzle.

"You and House seem to be getting along very well," she said, as if she had finally figured out that Greg and I were more than just roommates. But she knew about us just like everyone else. It wasn't a secret, and she wasn't the type to point out the obvious. Whatever point she had was slowly being pulled out of the hat.

"He wouldn't let me near his apartment if he hated my guts," I pointed out, playing along for the time being.

"House has been in a better mood the last few weeks."

Ripping each others clothes off at the kitchen sink a few days before may have had something to do with that. "Yeah, I noticed his better mood, too," I said. "I know you're not going to complain about _that_."

Cuddy nodded in agreement, clacked her perfectly painted nails on the table and said, "He listens to you."

Like hell he does. Despite my pleading for nearly for over five minutes to get our clothes back on and go to the hospital to help some actual sick people and all that jazz, he wouldn't let me off the kitchen floor until I said that I belonged to him. Still, that goddamn crooked grin of his...I crossed my legs and tried to focus on what she was saying. "Not always."

"True, but he _trusts_ you."

She looked across the table at me expectantly, her eyes wide and waiting, as if the rest of her week rested on my answer.

"Yes, he does." As much as an insecure, arrogant, half-crazy, control-freak drug addict could trust another person, I suppose. But I've been working on that.

"How much?"

The conversation was starting to get on my nerves. I needed to get back to work soon and didn't feel like spending the rest of my lunch being interrogated. "I've never asked so I don't really know," I replied. "And I trust you'll tell me what you're getting at with all these questions."

"House is starting to act like a normal human being again," she said. If she expected me to fall off my chair when those words reached my ears, it didn't happen. Her big revelation was ruined by the fact that I lived, breathed, and slept with the guy and thus new of all his little quirks and personality changes a hell of a lot longer before anyone else did. "I haven't had a complaint about him for four days in a row now."

"The day isn't over yet, Dr. Cuddy," I retorted, and almost laughed out loud. Since patients don't make complaints to the oncology department unless they are _about_ the oncology department, so that's one part of House and his behavior that Cuddy has the advantage on. But she doesn't know about me spiking his coffee with antidepressants and she's not going to know. The less people involved the less likelihood of someone blabbing and spilling the secret. "Is that some kind of record?" I had to ask.

"It is!" She made it sound like some of the greatest news she had ever heard and she could hardly wait to share it with someone, anyone. "He's...he's _happy_. I don't remember the last time I saw him that way...it was probably before the infarction..." She trailed off and a split second frown appeared on her otherwise bright lit up face. Then she leaned forward and nearly whispered, "Whatever you're doing to make him happy, Wilson, please keep doing it."

"Make who happy?" Greg suddenly materialized behind me and grabbed a handful of my now-cold fries. "Telling dirty secrets about me?"

"We are talking about one of my patients, thank you," I said quickly, shooting Cuddy a knowing glance before Greg dragged a chair over and sat down.

"Since when is making a patient happy in the job description?" he asked, almost sounding serious as he scarfed down the fries and helped himself to another handful.

Cuddy smirked at him and said, "Maybe I ought to add that to the job description."

"Doesn't quite work that way, boss" he began to explain. "You can't go up to a patient and say 'Your spleen is going to removed and you're going be happy about it' or 'Your kidneys are shutting down but here are some balloon animals to make you happy'. See any flaws in your grand plan, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I'll find a way around them," she replied.

"You do that." He made it sound like a challenge. "How about I tell you what makes me happy? Would you like to hear that? Hmmmm?" Without bothering to wait for answer, he said, "See, Jimmy sticks his hand down my pants and grabs–"

"Excuse me." Cuddy stood up so abruptly that she nearly knocked her chair over. "I'm late for a meeting. Enjoy Wilson's lunch." She stalked out of the cafeteria without looking back.

I rolled my eyes and asked, "Did you really have to scare her away?"

"If human sexuality and descriptions of how penises are used send her into such a tizzy, it's a wonder she go through medical school. It's a wonder she got through eight-grade health class. We're here, we're queer, and she should be used to it by now."

His eyes are like a cool, calm lake just before a storm churns the waters. He's smiling at me and I can't help but smile back. The antidepressants are doing a damn good job.

I'm going to be found out sooner or later. He's no idiot. But I want to see how far I can take it. I want to see how long I can get away with it, because that's exactly what he would do to me. Two can certainly play his game.


	20. Chapter 20

"Be quiet and make me happy," he ordered, pulling my arm over his shoulder.

"And what will make you happy?" I questioned, hoping it didn't involve him tying me to a piece of furniture and having his way with me for the rest of night. I still would have enjoyed it, but I was kind of tired and wanted a relaxing, stress-free, bondage-free evening.

"You'll find out real damn quick or you're sleeping on the porch tonight." He was just joking. At least I hoped he was.

After a little trial and error I discovered that he wanted me to rub his neck, scratch his back–which had him all but purring, then just keeping an arm around him while he was lounging and making crude remarks at the well-endowed actress in the movie we were watching. It was a good night to stay indoors as it had been pouring down rain since late afternoon. Good thing I don't sleep on the porch. My hand was clasped in his and he would rub my palm with his thumb every now and then to let me know that, yes, he was thinking of me, too. He knew those little things made me happy, very happy. Delighted. Ecstatic. Little things that no one else would notice. But I do, and he knows that very well, and he also knows that if I'm going to keep him happy he damn well better give me something in return.

"Fake!" he blurted out.

"Fake? What's fake?" I thought maybe he was talking about me or about us, that somehow everything we had worked for was fake. Or maybe I should have a few of those antidepressants myself and then I won't be so paranoid.

He jerked his chin at the jiggly model-turned-bad-actress onscreen. "Fifty bucks says those love-apples are fake."

"They look more like melons to me," I said, trying not to let me relief show through in my voice. I leaned in and planted a kiss behind his ear. He squeezed my hand and it felt wonderful.

"Apples, melons, either way those things weren't grown naturally," he said, slipping right back into his regularly scheduled snarkiness. "I guess she figured that if we stared at her cleavage long enough we would realize that she can't act her way out of a wet paper bag. The least she could do is drop her top and show us what those brilliant plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills gifted her with."

"You always know just what to say," I remarked with snorting laugh.

"But you still love me anyway."

I couldn't argue with that.

* * *

He leaned in the doorway and watched me as I brushed my teeth. I was dressed in baggy sweatpants, an even baggier shirt, and had circles under my eyes because it was late and I wanted to go to bed. Whatever the hell he found so fascinating to keep staring at, he kept to himself. He just stood there with a faint half-smile. I met his eyes in the mirror. 

"Why don't you just videotape me and watch it over and over if you find my bedtime routine so mesmerizing?" I mumbled with a mouth full of foaming toothpaste. I looked like Cujo on a bad day.

The half-smile crept up a notch. "What makes you think I haven't videotaped you already?"

I was still brushing my teeth and nearly swallowed the toothbrush when he said that. After regaining some of my composure, I told him that I wasn't going to fall into his trap and dignify that question with an answer. He told me that he had all the answer he needed when he saw the look on my face.

"Too bad I didn't have the camera in the kitchen the other day," Greg went on, carefully watching me. "I could have posted the clip of you screaming out my name in ecstacy on YouTube. Instant hit."

"I'll believe it when I see it," I said. There was no videotape of me. Even he isn't that perverted. I flicked some water at him and got him right in the eye.

Limping towards the sink, he said, "I'll e-mail you the link." Then he turned the water back on and splashed me with a wave of warm water.

Then it all became a big watery blur. We were splashing each other like little kids in a swimming pool, slipping along the floor, laughing and giggling and getting each other soaking wet. We were being total morons and our clothes were dripping wet and we could not care less. It was a spontaneous boatload of fun, and by the time I had to hunt down some extra towels and get the bathroom back to a reasonably dry state I think I had laughed more in that five-minute water fight than I had all year.

Greg sat at the edge of the bathtub, drying his hair and watching me mop up the mess. I glanced up and noticed his ear-to-ear grin, the kind of grin that causes dimples. A smile I hadn't seen on him for far too long. He was still dripping, his hair was sticking out in all directions and he looked absolutely gorgeous.

"You should smile like that more often," I suggested in all seriousness. "It suits you."

"Keep on giving me a reason to smile like this and maybe I will."

"I'll do that," I said.

"Please do," he replied, and went back to drying hair.


	21. Chapter 21

He limped off to the bedroom while I finished mopping up the mess in the bathroom. Water ended up everywhere–it was still dripping down the walls. But we had so much fun turning the bathroom into an aquarium I don't mind cleaning up. No less than four towels end up being hung over the shower rod to dry. I chuckled and turned off the light.

To my surprise the light was still on in the bedroom. Another surprise–he was sitting up in bed with a pile of pillows cushioning him against the headboard, looking very much the king in his castle. A faint smile appeared on his face when we locked eyes. He was waiting for me. Why, I don't know, but he was there, waiting patiently, knowing I would have to come through the door sooner or later. I lived there too and needed someplace to sleep.

"You want something?" I asked, trying not to stare and was completely unable to help it.

"That depends. What are you offering?" The faint smile became a knowing grin. That familiar mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes, along with something else. It was something I didn't see too often in that context. It was longing, yearning, hunger, thirst, craving...and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on.

"I'm not sure," I replied. "What exactly do you want?"

He reached over and patted my side of the bed, never taking his eyes off me.

So I walked over and climbed into my side of the bed, not that I wouldn't have anyway. I did want to see what he wanted, and he knows that in these moments I can't and won't deny him anything. Not when those hypnotic eyes are locked on to me like invisible tethers and are all but pulling me closer.

The second I threw the covers over my legs the lamp clicked off and his hand was on my chest, gently and firmly pushing me down. Blindly reaching up, my fingers stroked through his still-wet hair. His shirt was still damp and clinging, and he smelled like warm, fresh water and mint. I could feel him getting comfortable next me, carefully hooking his bad leg over my thighs to make me stay put while his thumb begin to trace the shape of my lower lip.

This wasn't about sex because that's not what he wanted. This was a million miles away from getting down and dirty in the kitchen. This wasn't about playing power games. This wasn't about lust, or getting off, or passion, or any other kind of carnal desires. This had nothing to with any of those things and everything to do with intimacy. He wanted intimacy. He wanted closeness, contact, the simple pleasure of touch, the sensation of my cool skin beneath his fingertips. After so many years spent alone every now and then he needed a reminder of why he didn't want to be alone again.

I lay back and took it all in. This was hardly the first time I had been pinned down while he did what he wanted with me, but this was the first time he had done it with such quiet determination. Usually it's accompanied with low growling orders, instructions, and various declarations of lust in the heat of the moment. But not tonight. Just the sound of his soft breathing. I didn't have the slightest clue of what set him down this strange path, and had the distinct feeling that he didn't really know either; just a driving force that was now far beyond his control. Then there was a soft flurry of kisses down my jaw and neck and I kept my mouth shut. Nothing else to do but enjoy the silence and all the sensations that went with it. I can't resist and don't want to. Right now I would drown with him in a lake of white fire, and when his mouth finds mine, warm and sweet and delicious, that's exactly what I do.

Everything disappears–the room, the night; all that I'm aware of is him, House, Gregory, and how being with him, being the person he loves, it's all so right on so many levels. Any past memories of arguments, harsh words, mistakes, bitter tears, they are all flung aside. They don't matter. He's all that matters because he's my entire world. Without him I'd be all alone in another cold hotel room or burning through another marriage because nice guys like me are supposed to have a good little wife by his side. A mistake I made three times. Not again. I'm right where I belong. And he is, too.

He would be here, alone, suffocating in his pain and pills. Letting it consume him until he could no longer find a way out. That's why he needs me here, so I can pull him back from brink and remind him that there is someone who cares about him even if he can't see that through the haze of pain. But there is no pain blocking his vision now. He's focused on me and only me. I love it, and I love him for it. I let myself be engulfed by that thought as I kiss him back.

Cool air rushes in as he breaks away, leaving me breathless and my mouth and chin burning, stinging from his stubble. He pulls his bad leg off me and grunts heavily. His leg is cramping again. He turns over and reaches for his pills. I shift over a bit to give him some room to stretch out while he downs a Vicodin. Which is exactly what he does, not before inching up as close as possible and still have room to move his leg if he had to. He pulls the covers back over us and rests his head on my shoulder.

Pain or no pain, he's still wants this closeness, this intimacy; something that is far beyond words as he hasn't spoken since I walked through the bedroom door. It's something he doesn't fully understand, he just knows that it's something he wants.

I don't understand it, either. But I know I want it and am willing do whatever it takes to get it.

The minutes continue to tick by. His taste is still in my mouth and I quietly revel in it as it slowly slides down my throat like rich honey. He's still partially covering me. I know he's not yet asleep, his shallow breathing tells me that. He nuzzles my neck for a moment and I let him. I can't deny him such a simple, thoughtful gesture, especially when it's for me, because in the quiet darkness of the bedroom I can't deny him anything. It's his to take and I'm willing to give it all.


	22. Chapter 22

The blinds were closed, keeping the bright morning sunshine outside. I was awake and had absolutely no intention of letting the world know that little fact just yet. The blankets were pulled up to my neck, my head was tucked under his chin, and his arm was hooked are my shoulder, gently stroking my temple. If he had actually been up during the night I never knew about it. Yet here he still was. Any other time he would having his coffee and waiting for me to shuffle into the kitchen and make him breakfast. But not today. He still wanted the intimacy he craved. He could have all he could handle...at least until the alarm went off.

Times like this make me wish I could just throw all my responsibilities out the window and spend the day in bed just because I wanted to.

He was relaxed and perfectly at ease. I listened to his steady breathing and strong heartbeat and know that the antidepressants have been worth it. I know that if he had his way we'd spend the entire day in bed. I know all the good days we have had together cancel out the bad. I know that I love him more than ever.

"You awake?" Greg asked quietly.

"Sure," I replied, dropping the charade since the alarm was going to start shrieking any minute now. "How's the leg?"

"It's fine."

I saw the familiar brown prescription bottle on the night stand. He must have taken one or two in the last few hours or else his mood wouldn't be nowhere near as good as it is now.

"What do you want for breakfast?" I asked, sitting up. "I'm not sure if there are enough eggs for–"

Then I found myself being pulled right back down and locked into a straight-jacket like embrace.

He nipped my earlobe and murmured, "We still have ten minutes. Stay here."

"Aren't you hungry?" I twist around to try and look him in the eye.

Our morning routine revolved around me making eggs or pancakes or whatever while he sat at the table and babbled away with whatever happened to have his attention at the moment. Something both of us were perfectly comfortable with. Now he wanted to break this routine ever so slightly because he was hungry for something else and still had ten more minutes to get his fill.

I stopped fighting and relaxed in his arms. It was a only a few more minutes. He had certainly earned it. So had I. Besides, who knew how long it would take before he was in the mood for something like this again?

But my curiosity got the best of me and I had to ask, "What's with you?"

"Am I doing something wrong?" he replied more than a little defensively.

"No. I was just asking."

"Am I doing something wrong, Jimmy?" he repeated.

"No, you're not."

"Good. Now shut your trap and enjoy the next eight minutes. Then make some waffles."

"Yes, dear."

* * *

Greg was nowhere to be found when I went to bring his coffee so I took it back to the office. Not too long he had made an offhand comment that he looked forward to the coffee as a mid-morning pick-me-up. I took it to my office and waited. 

Half an hour he came bursting through my office door. I pushed the cup to the edge of my desk. He swiped it up and slurped a mouthful before declaring, "A perfectly healthy-looking young lady coughed up blood during a karate class."

"Nice," I replied, suddenly not wanting the rest of my coffee. "Is that something healthy people normally do?"

"Infection." He plopped down in a chair. "My team disagrees, of course, but what the hell do they know?"

"Right. In the world according to Greg House, recent medical school graduates know _nothing_, or next-to-nothing if they're lucky. It's amazing they can walk and breathe at the same time."

He gave me an odd look. "Are you siding with them?"

"I'm not siding with anyone. But you have been wrong before. It would be nice if you remembered that when someone disagrees with your diagnosis."

"I'm right more than I'm wrong." His arrogance had obviously been stimulated by the caffeine rush. "And in this case I'm right. It's an infection."

"I'm sure it is," I said.

Then I made a huge mistake.

I yawned.


	23. Chapter 23

He furrowed his brow. "Why are you yawning? Am I boring you?"

"No." My answer was short and to the point. I hoped he would take the hint.

Not a chance.

"Liar," he said thickly. "You got plenty of sleep last night. I know, I watched you."

"You watched me get plenty of sleep?" It was my turn to furrow my brow. "For how long?"

"Couple of hours."

"Uh...why?"

"Because you're cute when your nose is all mashed up against the pillow and because I was too lazy to get up and turn on the TV."

"Greg, that's...creepy." A shiver went down my spine and my scalp tingled. Whatever else he did when I was asleep, well, I was better off not knowing. I'd never sleep again if I were to actually find out.

He grinned wickedly. Oh boy, this wasn't good. "Deal with it. Now unless you're seeing Cuddy on the side there's no reason for you to be yawning."

"I'm either here or with you," I replied a little too defensively. "Unless there's a wormhole hidden in the closet, I don't see how I would have the time or the energy to keep up with both of you."

"Really." Amusement was added to his grin. Good grief, he knew he was on to something, he just didn't know what it was yet. Heaven help me as he turned over every rock until he found the answer. "Do you miss being on top? Do you miss hearing a woman's voice scream out your name? Naw...that can't be it. Still, I should fuck you senseless tonight just to be on the safe side."

I almost yawned again just to piss him off. But I didn't feel like being bound and gagged with my best ties when I got home so I flippantly told him, "Be my guest."

"Eat a big lunch. You're going to need the energy later. Now why are you yawning when you shouldn't be?"

"Who cares?"

"I do."

"It was just a yawn," I declared, knowing that he wasn't going to give up and I had to get him out of my office before I completely lost it, dragged him out to the balcony and pitched him over. "It was a yawn like any other yawn. Okay?"

"No, it's not okay. Not yet. Are you screwing Cuddy?"

"If I say yes and let you watch, will you shut up and leave?"

"You're not screwing her, therefore I can't watch. So the answer is no, I'm not going to shut up, and while I'm at it, I'm not going to leave."

"Don't you have a patient throwing up blood?" I asked incredulously. I had to get him out of here and his attention focused on something else. A patient with a mystery disease was just what the doctor ordered. He knew I was hiding something. He wasn't going to leave until I inadvertently said something that pointed him in the right direction. I was hardly ready to give up on the antidepressants. Things were going rather well between us and I wasn't ready to give up on that, either. "Shouldn't you be checking on her, and, oh gosh, I don't know, seeing what the hell is making her sick?"

"My underlings are running the necessary tests. Those won't be down for a while. It's an infection. They'll page me if there's an emergency."

He wasn't going to leave. So I had to lie. "Look, I have to see a patient in about ten minutes. Go drive your team up the wall."

"I'll drive them over it and under it, too." To my amazement he got up and limped to the door. Then he turned and gave me that sly, knowing look that meant nothing but trouble for me in the very near future. "You want me to go so I'll go. We'll pick up this discussion at a more convenient time, then you won't have to lie about seeing invisible patients."

He left. I banged my head against the desk.

Two hours later he paged me–_My office. 911_.

I ran down there to find him cool and calm behind his desk, alone.

I pushed opened the door and began, "What's this–"

He held out a cup of coffee. "I didn't want it to get cold."

"This is the emergency?" I stared at the cup he was holding like it was a live snake. "For crying out loud, I thought you had someone dying in here!"

"Well, you've been buying me all those coffees for weeks now. I just wanted to return the favor." He said all that with a straight face.

I didn't believe a word of it.

"How did you carry the cups?" I asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I stacked them," he said, making a big show of how the cups fit together like oversized puzzle pieces. "Can't I do a favor for a friend?"

"You accused me of lying to you this morning and now you want to do me a favor?" I snorted. "Who are you and what have you done with Greg House?"

"I'm sitting right in front of you, you queer. Do you want it or not?" He held the cup out to me again. "It's mocha-mint."

"Mint?"

"New flavor. I thought I'd give it whirl."

"Fine." I sighed, then marched over and snatched the cup sitting on his desk.

He smiled at me and took a big gulp of the coffee he was holding. "Mint. Yummy."

I slurped down some of mine. A tad bit too minty but otherwise it was pretty good. "Thanks," I said, turning around to go back to my office.

"Don't mention it."

I took another gulp as I walked down the corridor, completely oblivious to the fact that I had just made the second biggest mistake of my life when I took that cup.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: I'm sure this chapter is going to look a little familiar._

* * *

I finished the coffee Greg bought. A little later I was at my desk and began to tap my foot. And never stopped. I couldn't get the damn label straight on Mr. Miller's file. My thoughts began to race like a bullet train. 

I realized was late for a patient, a breast exam; the doctor who was supposed to perform said exam was out. After literally racing downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time since the elevator was too damned slow, I burst through the door. She didn't seem too startled, not that I could really focus on her all that much to really notice.

"I can't seem to get my gloves on today. That's weird, " I said, while my hands were flopping around like fish out of water. After finally wrangling one hand into a glove, I went over to examine the patient. "Okay, one's just going to have to do for now. Well, lets have a look and see what we can find, if there's anything...not that we really want to find anyting, but you get my meaning."

The young lady lifted her arms above and remarked, "You sure do talk really fast."

"This is nothing. You should see me when we're busy," I blurted out, while my jittery hands were feeling her up. Then I winked at her. Then I realized what the hell I just did and wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

"I just winked at you," I admitted to my horror as she crossed her arms over herself, not that I could blame her for one second. "I just winked...I've never winked at patient before in my life. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry... I am _so sorry_."

"It's okay," she said, though any moron could see that she was a tad bit uneasy.

"No, it's not," I babbled. "I was hitting on you. Not that I hit on my patients...I mean, I don't hit on my patients. Really, I don't, but what else could you possibly be thinking?"

"That you were trying to be reassuring?"

"Yes, that could be it. That might be it. Who knows? I don't know what I'm saying. What the hell am I saying? Does anyone around here know? On the other hand I feel like my heart is going to explode." Panting, I stumbled back into a chair as sweat began to pour down my face.

"Are you okay?" my patient asked as she pulled her robe back on. "Your face is bright red. Do you have a fever?"

"I'm feeling a little sweaty. Am I sweating? Yes, I'm sweating. I'm sweating all over the damn place." I checked my racing pulse. "It's 185. My pulse is 185.What the...?" Then I knew who, what and why. "Excuse me. I have to go kill someone."

Somehow I made it back to the apartment without killing myself and taking half of Princeton with me. With my shaking hands and racing mind and dim light I couldn't find the damn key, so I pounded and pounded until he hauled his ass over and opened the door.

"You dosed me!" I yelled in his face.

"Yes, I did. Only because you lied to me," he replied, shaking a finger in my face like I was a naughty school kid. "You're my so-called best friend and you lied to me."

I stumbled into the apartment. "You could have killed me!"

"Amphetamines aren't going to kill you."

"How can you be so sure? You don't know my medical history! You...you...could have given me a heart attack, for crying out loud!"

"In case you didn't notice, you work in a hospital. I'm sure having the paddles close by would make all the difference in the world. So even if you did have a heart attack, it wouldn't kill you."

"You still tried to kill me, dammit!"

"And you still lied to me. Why did you yawn? Yawning is a side effect of anti-depressants."

"I'm not on anti-depressants, I'm on _speeeeeeed_!" I was twitchy and paced around the room.

"That, too. You're on happy pills. Admit it! Why would you keep that a secret? Still can't admit that you're as messed up the rest of us, Mr. I'm-So-Well-Adjusted? Are you _ashamed_ of that?"

"It has nothing to do with secrets!" I was going to have to plead with him and hope he would be satisfied and focus on something else. I was also going to have to lie to him again. "It's ...it's private. Okay? This is _private_! It's private. There are still some things in my life that I don't have to share with the rest of the world, like taking anti-depressants. And you're the reason why I take them."

"The yawning is recent. Did you up your dosage?"

"It's private! Don't ask. And stop acting like you're so damned hurt. You don't care."

"Yeah, well, it's too late for that," he said with a scowl. "You'd think something like this would come up in conversation, especially since you're the one lecturing me all the time on my life and how to fix it."

"You don't care! You won't take anti-depressants so you don't care," I pointed out. "You'd rather overdose or get high. Anyway, you'd have to admit that you're depressed. Are you ever going to admit that, Greg?"

He held out his hand. "Give them to me."

"What for? Are you going to admit that you're depressed?"

"No, I'm going to show the world that I'm _not_ depressed. Hand them over."

I couldn't let him have the anti-depressants. A double dose plus the Vicodin would certainly cause some kind of reaction. "I can't let you have mine. You need to see a psychiatrist so you can get the proper dosage." Sweat started pouring out again. The room was getting fuzzy. "Give me a Vicodin before I have a stroke."

He tossed bottle at me. I took one, then left, afraid he would wrestle the anti-depressants from me and end up overdosing. I couldn't be around him anymore anyway. In my hyper state I might do something that we both could regret. So I went back to my office and crashed. When I came down from the speed I would probably have a few more things to say and a few more lies to tell.


	25. Chapter 25

Several hours later he came storming into my office and stared at me as I lay sprawled on the couch.

"Amphetamine withdrawal is a bitch, isn't it?" he snarled.

Indeed it was. Every sound seemed amplified about three times louder than they had to be and the light looked like something the police would use in illegal interrogations. My head felt like it was rotting from the inside out. Even my eyelids hurt.

"I just told my patient she's dying and there's nothing we can do for her," he went on without waiting for me to say anything. "She accused me of having a smile on my face when I told her the bad news. Since when did anyone accuse me of being happy?"

I try to sit up before I searched my pounding head for an answer. "If people accuse you of anything, it's being miserable all the time," I offered.

"Exactly!" Greg declared. "No one accuses me of being happy unless maybe I am. Now why is that? Am I happy that my patient is going to kick? I've been hazy for weeks...but happy? Then I remembered you in the apartment and how you wouldn't share your pills with me."

"Because you need to see a shrink–"

"No, you wouldn't give them to me because you didn't want me double dosing. All those damn coffees weren't brought to me just because you were being nice." He stared down at me pointedly with a small but triumphant smirk. "You dosed me."

He wasn't yelling, but his voice rang in my ears like jet engine noise and made the throbbing pain behind my eyes feel like it was ready to push my eyeballs out to make room for more pain. "I was helping you because you won't get the help you need."

"I wasn't helped, I was hazy."

"You were happy."

"Hazy!"

"Happy!" I finally managed to sit up. "You were calmer and smiling. Admit it, you felt better."

"Sure, if being bright and cheery while telling a 20-year-old girl she's going to die is what I should be doing instead of being a bitter, crippled jackass."

He turned and stomped out of my office and slammed the door. My head nearly shattered at the sound.

* * *

"Hey, Speed Racer." Greg was lightly patting my cheek. "Time to go home."

I blinked as his face swam into focus. My desk lamp cast a muted glow on the room. The soft light didn't make my eyes melt; I was feeling a little better, but that really wasn't saying much.

"I can't drive like this," I croaked.

"I'll drive. Where are your keys?"

"In my jacket on the back of the chair."

He grabbed my jacket, fished out my keys, then helped me up as best he could. His earlier smarminess was replaced with the weariness of a long day and a touch of concern. I staggered a few steps ahead before he grabbed my arm and said, "Don't rush it or you're going to trip and fall flat on your face." My jacket was shoved back into my grip as he still held onto my arm and walked me to the car. His winter car was a few rows over. He noticed me looking at it. "If anyone is desperate enough to steal that piece of shit, they can have it," he remarked while I climbed into the passenger seat and spent the next 45 seconds trying to get the seatbelt to work.

He eased into the driver's side and started up the car, letting it warm up. "My patient isn't dying after all," he said casually.

"Really?" I looked over at him. "That's good."

"Yeah, her parents thought so, too. Turns out she tried to kill herself by swallowing drain cleaner. A surgery or two to repair the damage in her gut and she'll be physically okay. But mentally...she's depressed and needs help. You got any of those happy pills left?"

I didn't answer, just turned and looked out the window. The drive home was quiet. No words were exchanged as he helped me out of the car, then helped me hobble to the bedroom, helped me take off my clothes, and helped me into bed. All this helping. Yes, it was a bit strange given what he had managed to figure out earlier that day, but it wasn't I like I didn't appreciate having a hand in helping me get ready for bed. No, I didn't call him on it. I didn't want to have to get dressed, drive all the way back to the hospital and sleep in my office. Or get pulled over and spend the night in jail for Driving While Withdrawling.

* * *

The bed seemed warm and alive. It was. I woke up draped across his as much of his lap as possible while avoiding his bad leg, a pillow cushioning against any inadvertent weight shifts. A medical journal was in his hands and his reading glasses glinted in the lamp light. Funny, he wasn't in bed with me when I fell asleep. Even funnier, I didn't wake up when he moved me over to his lap.

"How's it going, Speed Racer?" Greg asked.

"I thought I was Sleeping Beauty," I said, rubbing my tired eyes.

"Tonight you're both." He reached over to the night table and brought back a glass of water. "Here. You were in your office for half the night and I'm sure nothing hit your stomach since you hit the couch."

"Thanks." I took a several long gulps. The water was room temperature and hit my stomach like a tidal wave.

"You want something to eat?" Greg asked as he took the glass back.

The thought of food made me cringe and I shook my head.

"You're eating something at breakfast, Jimmy, even if I have to force it down your throat."

"That sounds appetizing."

"I mean it."

"I know you do. Just don't expect me to cook tomorrow morning."

"Cereal will be fine for a day." Much to my surprise, he reached over and affectionately brushed the hair from my sweaty brow. "No offense, but I'm not taking anymore coffees from you."

"I didn't think so."

"Are you through dosing me?"

"It was helping you, Greg."

"No, it wasn't. Are you through dosing me, Jimmy?"

"If you're done dosing me," I muttered, defeated and disappointed.

"I am. Have you ever drugged me before the happy pills?"

I swallowed hard and admitted, "I slipped a sleeping pill in your drink once."

"I see." He didn't seem too angry or surprised. "Are we through lying to each other?"

That gave me a start, and made me think of all the lies I had to tell just so I could go behind his back and get him a little of the help he needed. A lot of good that did, both the lying and the helping. "I'd like to think so."

"Me too," he said, then turned back to his journal and turned the page.


	26. Chapter 26

He continued to read his journal and I draped myself over his lap. He wanted me there for a reason and it was comfortable, so I could hardly argue. Any other time he would be polite enough to read in the living room when I was sacked out on the bed. Not tonight. Tonight disturbing my sleep would let him know if I was okay or not. Keeping an eye on me, as per usual. Having a glass of water there on the night stand in case I woke up thirsty. Making sure the road I took when I came down from the speed wasn't too bumpy.

But he wasn't angry. At least not yet. That was worth thinking about. I'd find out when the meds were out of his system.

Ah, well. It was okay while it lasted. At the very least I don't have to worry about getting caught anymore. He'd never accept another cup of coffee or any kind of beverage from me again so I don't have to buy him any drinks anymore. As for the speed, well, what goes around comes around I suppose. But he could have made his point with a lower dose.

A tickling sensation; he was threading his fingers through my hair. That's what Greg did instead of lovey-dovey talk, which he usually leaves for me. Oh yes, that felt so nice. Soothing and relaxing, just what I needed. It was so much better than an awkwardly delivered endearment. With his skilled fingers on my skin and faint page turning the only sound in the room, I drifted away.

* * *

"Scoot over." He was shaking my shoulder. "My leg is starting to cramp." 

"Oh...sorry," I mumbled, then moved back over to my side of the bed.

For some reason he didn't like that. "I said 'scoot over' not 'move halfway across the world.'" I looked up to see a stern, disapproving look. He was still wearing his reading glasses, and I guessed that not much time had passed since I had fallen back asleep. "Get back over here before I duct tape you to the bed."

"But your leg–"

"My leg will be fine." The glasses came off, then the familiar rattle as he swiped up the Vicodin bottle and popped off the cap. "You won't be if you don't get your ass in gear and close up some of this distance."

I sighed, picked up my pillow and moved back over until there was maybe an inch of space between us and lay back down. In a minute he'd be complaining that he didn't have enough room to stretch out, but for the moment he looked pleased and smiled down at me.

"Does my Jimmy want some more water?"

"No, I'm okay."

"I'm glad to hear that." The crooked smile on his face told me that he really meant it. "We have something good here, don't we?"

"What's that?" I puzzled, hoping like hell he wasn't about talking about drugging each other as the greatest thing we have going.

"You and me. Our relationship. _Us_. It's a good thing for both of us, right?"

"Sure."

"Good. I think so, too. I'm glad you're here with me, Jimmy. I really am. So why are we going well out of our merry way to dose each other's coffee?"

I was taken aback by his skirting-the-line-at-lovey-dovey words, and it took a few beats before I could answer. "You're depressed. You were getting low and you won't get any help. I started dosing you because I was afraid you'd start thinking about suicide again."

"I don't want help I don't need," he said tersely. "By the way, I haven't had any thoughts about suicide since that one time. You're the one who keeps bringing it up, not me."

"How could I know you weren't thinking about it?" I asked. "Greg, when you get low, you get...low. It's not a pretty sight."

"I'm not a pretty, happy-go-lucky person, Jimmy. I never have been. But that's another discussion for another time. And you seem to have forgotten two things."

"Two things?"

"One, I thought about swallowing all my pills because I was in pain, not because I was depressed. Two, you told me to call you if I was ever feeling suicidal again. Do you remember telling me that?"

"Yes."

"And have I told you that I was feeling like ending it all since then?"

"No."

"Would you like to tell me why?"

I knew. And he wasn't going to let it go until I said it. "Because you haven't."

"That's right. But you were obviously concerned enough to start dosing me."

"I'd do it again," I said defiantly.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," Greg said, looking more amused than anything. "I'd do it all over again if I had to. You and your pounding head know exactly what I mean by that. Do us both a favor and keep that in mind."


	27. Chapter 27

"You were happy, Greg, for the first time in a long time," I said. "I'd go through all this again if I had to."

"I know you would," he said, and began to pet my head like I was a faithful canine companion. I had wondered more than once if he sometimes thought of me as a pet, but I didn't dare ask him. I didn't want to know. "But we're past that, aren't we, Jimmy?"

"Yes."

"We're through dosing each other?"

"Yes."

"That's good." The petting continued. It felt good and I wanted it to go on for as long as possible. "It could only end with you flying high and crashing into a mangled mess and me being to pleased with myself to care."

"That sounds like fun. How much speed did you dose me with?"

"30 milligrams."

"Why that much?" I rubbed my still-pounding head.

"Because 20 would have too little and 40 would have been too much," he replied stoically, looking down at me. "I wanted you to know who and why, and I wanted you to think your heart was going to explode."

I snorted and said, "How kind of you."

"Too kind without being too much. Well...almost. Sometimes I amaze even myself. Did you really think there wouldn't be any retaliation on my part when I found out what you were doing?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't find out at all."

"Did you really believe that I wouldn't?"

"No," I answered, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "I knew you would sooner or later; I was hoping it would be later. You were doing so well that–"

"You prefer the drugged me to the real me?" Greg asked sharply. The hand that had been petting my hair pulled away. "Is that what you're saying? You want me to be a good little drugged-out zombie you can parade in front of everyone without being embarrassed?"

"Of course not," I said quickly and a little bit too defensively. "I–"

"You _what_?" His eyes turned into cold, hard spheres of ice.

"I was afraid for you, Greg. I was afraid you would think about suicide again and I couldn't be sure that you weren't. You won't listen to _anyone_ when it comes to getting help so I did the only thing I could do. I do prefer a drugged you to a dead you any day. You can think whatever you want about_ that_."

The ice melted into cool shimmering lakes, revealing the insecurities he tried so damn hard to hide from the world: his fear of not being in control; his fear of failing at his job; his fear of being alone again; a neediness that rivaled mine. Fragile insecurities that threatened to crumble into dust. Insecurities he tried and failed to project on me because I was the most convenient target. Feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable since it wasn't on his terms, he tried to leave. I grabbed his hand, the one that had been running through my hair, the one he pulled back. Just holding his hand, nothing else, but he froze as if glued to the spot.

"Remember when we were shopping?" I began, hoping my aching head wouldn't spoil my moment of triumph. "Before we saw Tritter there, I mean. Remember when we were sitting down and eating?"

"Not really," he mumbled. He probably didn't but in the end it hardly mattered.

"I do. I was watching you. You were smiling. You were relaxed even with all the other people there. You were enjoying yourself."

"If you say so."

"I am saying so, Greg. Cuddy said so, too."

"That's what you two were talking about that day when she was sitting with you in the cafeteria. You weren't talking about a patient, you were talking about me. She noticed I had...changed?"

"She's the one who brought it up."

"Did you tell her what you were doing?"

"No. Remember the water fight?"

"Yeah," he said, chuckling at the memory.

"That was fun, wasn't it?"

"You didn't bitch about cleaning it up, so I guess it was."

"I commented on your smile. You told me to give you reason to keep smiling like that. Remember that?"

"Yeah, I remember that."

"I'm going to do that even if it kills me, Greg."

"I prefer a drugged you to a dead you, Jimmy."

"I hope so," I said, squeezing his hand.

He looked down at me again, his expression an odd mix of amusement, pensiveness and downright confusion. This wasn't supposed to happen. He had figured it all out and dosed the hell out me to show his victory. He wasn't supposed to lose whatever the hell we were fighting about. Because losing meant he had to admit that even though I wasn't right in drugging him, I had a damn good reason to do it.

"I'll see what I can do," he said softly, then pulled his hand away. I didn't resist. I let him go and watched as he turned off the light and limped out the door. He left it open a bit and stood there in the hallway. I could still see his shadow. He just stood there for a few moments, then went into the living room. I heard a faint creak as he sat down in his spot on the sofa and then a soft click followed by a babble of voices as the television came on. The door was left open so he could hear me call out in case I needed anything from him. It was left open in case he needed anything from me.


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Well folks, I think this story is ready to come to an end, so the next few chapters are going to be the last. Thanks to all my fantabulous readers. You guys are the best! I'm nothing without you!_

* * *

It was some ridiculous hour in the middle of the night and he still hadn't come to bed. I know, I had been sleeping on his side; now I was looking at the sliver of light creeping through the door. The television volume was low, but I could hear the roar and growl of monster trucks. The lure of over-sized trucks wasn't keeping him out there for hours on end. 

And it wasn't. A faint click and the trucks were cut-off in mid-roar.

A creak from the sofa and a grunt from Greg as he pulled himself up. The click of the cane brought him closer, then his shadow briefly floated by as he walked to the bathroom. Running water, then Greg brushing his teeth. After the water stopped I moved back over to my side, hugged a pillow, and waited.

The lights turned off and Greg limped into the room, finding his way easily in the dark. He had lived here for fifteen years. The furniture was still the same. The only thing that had changed between then and now was me moving in. And getting a new DVD player, stereo and cable TV.

"Jimmy?" he said quietly.

"Yeah?"

He threw back the covers like he was a magician throwing back his cloak and said, "You okay? What are you doing up? You need anything?"

"I've been awake for a while. It's not big deal. I'm fine."

"You sure? Last chance. After I get comfortable I'm not getting up again. If you need some more water you're going to have to trip your way to the kitchen to get it."

"I'm fine, Greg."

"Okay." He sat down, lifted his leg, then settled in for another whopping four hours of sleep, if he was lucky. "Keeping it warm for me over here?" he asked with a short laugh. "Why, thank you."

"I just...ended up over there," I replied.

"So you say." He turned over to face me even though the room was dark and everything was just vague shapes and shadows. "I say you were keeping it warm for me, or maybe you just missed so much you curled up over here, clutching my pillow, just waiting and waiting for me to come back."

"Or maybe I just rolled over there in my sleep."

"You're probably right, but you _were_ clutching my pillow earlier when I checked on you."

"Was I really?"

"Yup. I took a picture with my camera phone. I'll show it to you in the morning before I load it on MySpace."

"Uh...okay. Thanks." That's exactly the sort of thing he would do, so I had no choice but to believe every word of it until I was forced to hack into his account and remove all the incriminating pictures of myself and him.

"You're welcome. Now come here."

"Why?" I asked a bit warily, hoping he hadn't decided that dosing me wasn't enough and he wanted more revenge.

"You slept over here half the night. There's no reason to sleep over here the other half," he said sincerely. No trace of anger or bitterness in his voice. "I think I've punished you enough already. Now it's time to make it up to you."

I believed him, I really did. But I had to be sure that we were on the same page, that his idea of making something up to me didn't involve more drugs or tie bondage. "How do you intend to do that, Greg?"

"There's only one way to find out." He was smiling, I knew he was. He sounded very pleased with himself for some reason. The anti-depressants were still in his system and would be for a while.

So I might as well enjoy the benefits while he was still enjoying the effects.

I moved right back over and he all but pulled me on top of him, careful to not put too much weight on his right side. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, and the glow from the alarm clock outlined his cheekbone. Just outlines and shadows and his warmth, that wasn't everything. I wanted all of him, to touch and to feel him. My fingers traced the shapes I could see.

"You care enough. I'm glad to see that," he said softly, like he really didn't want to but felt it was something I needed to hear.

"Care enough? Care enough for what?" I questioned, having no idea what he meant.

"To try and fix the problem. Not that there is one, but you seem to think there is. Anyone else would have just tiptoed around me, but not you, Jimmy. You're going to fix it even if it kills you. Drugging my coffee, making sure I drank it, making sure I'm going to be all right."

That's why he was out in the living room for so long. He was working up the nerve to come in here to say those things.

"Are you all right, Greg?"

"I'm tired right now, but other than that I'm fine. Thank you. I'm glad that you didn't feel the need for speed when it came to dosing me. That would have been a jerk thing to do."

"Why is it a jerk thing for me but not for you?" I asked, honestly curious.

"I'm a jerk already. I was born a jerk. You're not, you never will be, and this here bed isn't big enough for two of me."


	29. Chapter 29

I liked the idea of us falling asleep in each other's arms. At the very least it tells me that there is a connection between Greg and I. He was letting someone invade his personal space, and considering he can't stand to be touched by anyone else, I believe I have a right to feel smug about it. And when he pulls me into his personal space and _wants_ me to touch him, well, that's all the better.

Right now it's just us and the dark bedroom. If I had my way we would lay here for much longer than the four and half hours we had before the alarm went off.

_This here bed isn't big enough for two of me._

It's more than big enough for the two of _us_.

He was curled up against my chest, dozing away. When he had been getting comfortable he had taken my arm and draped it over his waist, making sure I was holding him because that's what he wanted. That intimacy he had been craving his whole life, and now that he had it he wasn't about to let it go. That was fine with me. I was still holding him because that's what I wanted. He was with me, me and me alone, and that's what I wanted. I had no room to complain at all.

* * *

"Let's say we get some take-out tonight," Greg said as he nibbled away at the fries I had on my lunch tray. "You're obviously not in the mood to cook." 

I wasn't about to argue with him and told him to go right ahead. Then I had to ask, "You're letting me off breakfast and dinner?"

"Why not? Do you want to cook dinner, Jimmy?" He eyed me with overblown, overacted suspicion as he stole another handful of fries.

"Can't say that I do." I really didn't want to, and a night of relaxing with him and take-out food was just what I needed.

"Good. Argument stopped before it started. You want Chinese or Italian?"

"Whatever you want will be fine with me," I said. "Just make sure it isn't too rich or greasy."

"Unlike these fries, Jimmy?"

"I bought them knowing you would eat most of them."

"In other words you bought them for me because I'm so fucking worth it," If he smiled any wider the top of his head would fall back. "Alrighty then. I'm in the mood for Chinese. You will eat what I get you and you will like it."

"Your generosity astounds me."

"Damn right it does," he replied with a snort. "However, I will demand compensation for this in the future."

I raised an eyebrow and said, "What will that be? Money? Some ridiculously complicated meal?"

"You screaming out '_Don't stop, Greg, don't stop_' will do for now."

"How long is now?"

"As long I want it to be."

As Greg had said earlier, _alrighty then_. It was a moment I couldn't let pass by. If I did, I would regret it until the end of time. He needed a taste of his own medicine every now and then, so to speak, just to keep him on his toes if nothing else. And right now he was going to have said medicine forced right down his throat.

"Fine," I said, making sure he caught the smirk spreading across my mouth and the newly invigorated twinkle in my eyes. "You want it and now you're going to get it."

The rest of the cafeteria ceased to exist; it was just me and him and our table. He knew what I was about to do and couldn't stop it. His eyes got as wide as garbage can lids. "Jimmy, I meant–"

"Too late," I broke in as I threw my head back and screamed, "_Oh God, Greg! Don't stop! Don't stop_!" at the top of my lungs. The pure unadulterated ecstasy I was able to add to my voice at the last second added a nice touch, if I do say so myself.

The silence that followed was almost eerie. Dozens of pairs of eyes were staring at us, burning holes into our backs. I watched the color fill in his face until it was like a tomato, his blue eyes like twin blue islands in a sea of red. He's not easily embarrassed, but right then...oh, boy. It was so worth it. He couldn't have been more shocked if I had suddenly announced I was getting a sex change and moving to Branson, Missouri.

"Sorry," I muttered in the new silence, nonchalantly picking up a fry. "Must've been the speed still lingering in my system causing me to do weird things."

"Dr. Wilson?" Cameron was standing at our table. The poor girl looked about as confused as Greg, only without the tomato red face. As everyone began to turn back to their lunches with more than a few "What was _that_ all about?" or equal lines thrown into the air, Cameron asked, "Are you...okay?"

"Yes, Dr. Cameron. Thank you." I gave my biggest, friendliest smile. "I didn't mean to scare anyone. I was just...I needed to get something out of my system. Right, Greg?"

He just nodded, his mouth hanging so far open I could count his teeth.

"Are you sure?" Cameron didn't look convinced, not that I could blame her.

"Yes, Dr. Cameron. I'm fine."

"All right," she said, turning to leave. "If you, um, change your mind, I'll be in the clinic and I'll be more than happy to take a look at you."

"Thank you for the offer. I'll keep it in mind," I said, then waved her away from the table.

I noticed Greg's eyes following her as Cameron weaved her way around the tables to the corridor. The tomato red had drained a bit, leaving behind a bright pink flush. The initial shock had worn away. Now he had to say something. He turned to me and I was more than a little surprised to see a grin on his face.

"That was...," he began.

"What?" I asked.

He laughed. "That was fucking _brilliant_."


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Here is the last chapter. Thanks to all my readers and all your reviews. Special thanks to Purridot–you are The Awesome!_

* * *

"What do we have here?" I said, bringing the take-out containers to the coffee table. 

Greg had made it home before I did and had just finished ordering the food when I walked in the door. Then when it arrived he made me pay for it.

He accepted the Pepsi I handed over and said, "Open them and find out. Anything with chicken in it is mine."

"Even though I paid for it?" I asked.

"You're going to pay for it with more than money if you don't hand over my food."

I set the containers down on the table and helped myself to a Pepsi. I hadn't even opened my container of fried rice when I noticed him plowing through his container of orange chicken without pausing to take a breath. "Slow down!" I cautioned him. "How about chewing and tasting your food first."

"I'm hungry," he mumbled through a mouthful of pulverized chicken. "I haven't eaten anything since your french fries."

"It's all going to come right back if you don't slow down. It's not like we're going anywhere after this. We have all evening, Greg. Now stop shoveling your food or you're going to regret it later."

That earned me an irritated grunt, but he knew from experience that I was right and began to eat his dinner at a reasonable pace. The night was still young and we had planned a nice long evening of doing as little as possible–just food and relaxing in front of the television. For one brief second I thought about asking if he wanted to go shopping just to see what he would say; but I was afraid he would actually want to go and I would end up having to buy him that leather jacket he had been looking at the last time. Besides, I didn't want go out. I didn't feel like playing a human version of pinball with cranky crowds and screaming kids. In those situations it was all too easy to see why Greg preferred to take refuge from the world in his apartment and only went out when he had to.

The smell of the food made my mouth water, and I hadn't eaten since he stole half my lunch nearly six hours ago. We munched on our food and watched the local news.

Afterwards I gave my dinner a fair amount of time to digest, then I moved to clean up the empty containers. He knew I couldn't stand a mess and he knew I would clean it all up; I wouldn't let them sit there long enough to collect dust. His apartment was definitely cleaner since I had moved in. The second he tries to take credit for it I'm going to make him a huge dinner to rival a Thanksgiving feast and make him wash every last dish.

I stuffed the remains of dinner into the trash can, washed my hand, then walked back into the living room to find Greg standing at the edge of the sofa with a pillow in his hand.

I paused and blinked.

"Sit," he said, nodding at his usual spot on the sofa.

I remained standing and folded my arms. "Should I beg and roll over, too?"

"I'll make you beg later," he smirked. "Right now I just want you to sit."

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired and I want a comfy lap to rest on."

"I'm tired, too. Why can't I rest on your lap?"

"Half my lap isn't up to it, and I was here first. Now get your ass over there before I take this pillow and smother you with it."

"Such a persuasive argument," I drolled with a roll of my eyes as I strode over and sat down.

"I have a reputation for getting people to do what I want."

"By threatening them with death?"

"It works, doesn't it?"

Apparently it does.

In less than thirty seconds he had taken over the rest of the sofa, the pillow on my lap and his head on the pillow. He made sure my arm was draped across his chest so he could hold my hand, then told me to turn on the DVD player and I did, finding that he had put in _Hot Fuzz_ before I had arrived home. That was fine with me. We spent half the evening giggling like loons at the silly British cops and the other half watching various true crime documentaries. A nice relaxing night spent with him. No interruptions. No arguing. No drugging each other. Just us enjoying the movies and shows and each other's company. I couldn't have asked for anything better. Well, he could have paid for his half of the food, but you can't have everything.

"Hey," he spoke up the show's credits began to roll.

"Hmm? What?"

"That thing you did in the cafeteria today..."

"What about it?" I asked a bit warily, hoping he wasn't to do a 180 and pick a fight.

"It was fucking brilliant. I wasn't expecting that. That was so _me_, Jimmy. I have to say that I'm just a bit proud of you."

Smiling down at him, I said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now how about doing it for real," he said huskily.

"Why, Dr. House, is that a Vicodin in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

"Follow me and find out." He stood up and held out his hand.

I took it but remained sitting until he frowned, puzzled. "Tell me I'm fucking brilliant," I said.

"Seriously? What for?"

"I like the sound of it. Tell me I'm fucking brilliant and then I'll follow you, heal, beg, roll over and fetch."

He laughed. It was a deep, rich laugh. The kind I don't hear often enough. "Alrighty then, Jimmy. You are fucking brilliant."

"Just what I wanted to hear."

I got up and followed him into the bedroom. I would follow him to the ends of the earth. Maybe later I would tell him that.

--The End.


End file.
